Stargate: XT1
by Union-Jack2.0
Summary: Extreme AU! NONSHIPPER FIC! Warning! Possible culture shock and disorientation! The Stargate never made it to the United States: instead, it is in the hands of the British Government. Click here for something COMPLETELY different.
1. The End…of the Beginning

**Stargate: XT-1**

**Author:** Union-Jack2.0

**Rating:** 18, due to language, violence and various other details. I cannot sufficiently emphasise this. If you don't like these, just stop reading! It's as simple as that. Flames will be redirected to my central heating system in the winter and to my gas oven in the summer, but otherwise will be ignored. Mmm… I do love a nice bit of gammon steak in the summer…

**Summary:** Extreme Alternate Universe fic! Warning! Possible culture shock and disorientation! (N.B. natives of the British Isles may disregard this warning notice completely.) The Stargate never made it to the United States: instead, it is in the hands of the British Government – the Ministry of Defence, to be exact. Expect alterations at the most fundamental of levels, abandon your hopes of seeing anything familiar…although I might stick in the occasional familiar face or two from time to time. Multiple minor crossovers. No Sam/Jack, Sam/Daniel, Sam/Janet, Sam/Teal'c, Sam/Hammond guaranteed. This is not a primarily 'shipper fic by any stretch of the imagination!

**Disclaimer:** Gekko and their assorted compatriots own anything recognisable from the television series _Stargate: SG-1_ and someone else has some of the stuff from the film _Stargate_. Any characters, planets, ships etc which are **not** from that series or any other media to which someone other than myself holds copyright to are of my own creation, and I shall be deeply angry if anyone attempts to use them without getting permission from me first. Such miscreants will be hunted down and attacked by Replicators and/or Daleks. I make no profits beyond enjoying myself out of this.

To the best of my knowledge the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment of the British Army has never and does not maintain any such unit called J Squadron or indeed any form of unit dedicated to dealing with the supernatural; also to the best of my knowledge neither does any other arm of the British Armed Forces or any element of the British Government operate, support, endorse or supply personnel and/or equipment, funding or any other means of support to such a unit or organisation: this is entirely a product of my own creative skills, thank you very much. (_What the hell, the US Army has the Initiative, the USAF has the SGC and the UN has UNIT in other fiction, if there's a good reason why the British Army can't have a dedicated paranormal ops team in a fictional milieu, I'd be interested to hear it._)

I have no connections of any kind whatsoever with any element of the British Armed Forces. Any inaccuracies regarding any aspect of the operations procedures, regulations and other details are either my error or, as I have previously stated with regards to J Squadron, the result of creative license. I make no claims at being an expert on any branch or unit of the British Armed Forces. It should be noted that none of the characters represented as serving as part of the British Armed Forces are intended to have any resemblance whatsoever to any real personnel. Any such resemblances are entirely unintentional and coincidental. (_I doubt there will be any, but you never know._)

On another note, if you've got an idea for a fic involving any original characters or anything else of my design, feel free to contact me – you just need to _ask_ first, okay? I won't reject an idea unless there's a really good reason. (Such as if someone's got ideas about Ash's history that don't fit with the material I've already prepared, or wants to write 'smut' fic involving, for example, a gratuitous encounter between Ash and Gareth. They're both straight, okay?) Yeah, this is unusual. I think you'll find this is an unusual fic. If you want to try writing any drabbles or a short or even a longer fic based on this, drop me a line.

**Series:** The 'Shattered Arrow' Universe. _Faith Restored_ and_ Ashes on the Gulfstream Wind_ are currently in production; these fics will be posted in parallel to the timeframe of this one, with _Restored_ in the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ section and _Ashes_ in the_ Buffy the Vampire Slayer Crossovers_ section. _Faith Restored_ begins set in May 1997, whilst _Ashes_ starts at October 31st 1997. When _XT-1_ reaches these points, the chapters will be posted simultaneously, keeping as in step as much as possible. There's a way to go yet though.

**Author's Notes:** Please note that any and all original characters of British origin are not meant to sound like Hugh Grant. The only human being on the entire _planet_ who sounds like Hugh Grant _is_ Hugh Grant. I cannot stress this enough.

_The Gateway Opens_ has been under production for more than a year by this point, constantly being refined, adjusted and improved. I'd like to thank Joe B1451, Falling Dragon, GTAOtaku and Sage Harper for their support, advice, beta-reading and willingness to endure my madness and mayhem for such a lengthy production process.

**Dedication:**_To the memory of Sergeant Talaiasi Labalaba, BEM & MiD, B Squadron 22nd Special Air Service Regiment, who fell on the 17th July 1972 at the Battle of Mirbat. One of the world's finest, both as a soldier and as a man, we are much poorer for his loss. He dared and won._

_

* * *

_

**_"They shall not grow old as we are left to grow old, _**

**_Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn,  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning, _**

**_We will remember them." _**

**—Winston Churchill **

**Chapter One: The Gateway Opens**

**Part One of Nine**

**The End…of the Beginning**

**Friday 5th March 1993**

**London's West Side**

_Dear Doctor Carter,_

_Whilst we thank you for your interest, we regret to inform you—_

Samantha Carter groaned, blinking sleep from her eyes as she read the opening sentence of the rejection letter. She balled it up and tossed it into the nearby waste bin. The letter, merely the latest of many, landed atop the ever-growing pile of its predecessors.

Sam yawned hugely, running her hand through her short tousled blonde locks as she glanced at the clock over her front door. Oh, just _perfect_. Trust her alarm to fail.

The lanky astrophysicist slumped down on the stairs, burying her head in her hands as her phone rang. Eventually the answering machine took the call. "Carter? Ya shoulda been here two hours ago! I warned you, one more slip up and you're outta here. Well, this sure fits the bill. You're fired, Carter!"

Sam grimaced. She wouldn't miss Errol Grant. He might have been the only American she'd encountered since moving to England four months back, but the Texan had been obnoxious, small-minded and abhorrently bureaucratic. To be honest, she wasn't that homesick in any case. She would, however, miss her wages from the McDonalds restaurant. True, the work had been demeaning for someone of her qualifications, but it had paid the bills.

Well, the upside was she didn't have to go to work now. She could veg-out in bed. Write application letters to a few more universities and labs. Watch the BBC; it was quite a change to watch a non-profit-making channel that wasn't littered with commercials.

Sam groaned as she stood up. Pulling her robe more closely about her, she shuffled into the living room, throwing herself down on the old and comfortably worn sofa. Her bed had most likely gone cold by now, the only one she was kidding was herself when it came to the application letters, and it was just gone ten o'clock; the news had been and gone so the only stuff on the Beeb now would be home decorating and cookery programs. Oh, and _The Wombles_.

_How are the mighty fallen,_ she mused, laying her head back and staring absently at the faded art-deco ceiling. Just two years ago she'd received her doctorate. A couple of months later her father had died from cancer, and Sam and her brother had inherited his estate.

Sam's dreams of finding a nice cosy lab and a steady job had not become reality. Work had proven impossible to come by, despite her travelling between the coasts of the US. The money began to run out, and she'd known that her time was growing short. She'd sold up and moved to England, hoping that just maybe she might strike lucky. Back in her first year of high school, her class had been taken on a week's field trip to the UK, and it had been a visit to the Jodrell Bank observatory that had first inspired her to take her first steps into the field of astrophysics. If anything her situation had worsened; the dollar was weak whilst the pound sterling was strong. The combination of the punishing exchange rate and costs of the housing market had drained her accounts almost dry, and if anything the academic world here was far more competitive.

Sam looked up at the sound of the doorbell. Mentally shrugging, she rose from the sofa's comfortable depths to answer the door. It was probably just a salesperson, but it was better than just moping around.

Her visitors were the very last people she'd expected. A British Army captain in khaki dress uniform, a cluster of medal ribbons displayed on his jacket, looked up brightly from his briefcase. Behind him on the pavement, a tall and burly soldier in camouflage fatigues stood beside an Army Land Rover. "Doctor Carter?" the captain enquired.

Sam blinked, half-convinced that she was still dreaming. "Yeah?" she answered.

The captain held out his hand. "Captain Buckland, GHQ. Could we come in for a moment?" he asked.

Sam regarded him warily as she shook it. "What's this about?"

"A job." Buckland told her, smiling politely.

Sam slowly nodded, standing to one side and adjusting her robe. "Okay," she said. Buckland motioned for the soldier to follow him in, and she dead-bolted the door behind them. Sam led her guests into the living room. "Do you mind waiting here for a sec? Just so I can get some pants on."

"Certainly," Buckland nodded, removing his cap as he sat down.

* * *

"So," Sam said as she returned to her guests, having gotten dressed in a pair of old jeans and a sweater. "What's this about a job?" 

Buckland set his case on Sam's coffee table. "Before we get to discussing that, I'd like to say that we did our background research quite thoroughly on you. We know that you're none too keen on the military and that you refuse to work on nuclear or biological weapons development. General Blake at the Pentagon was…quite upset at your refusal." He smiled briefly at this.

"Doctor, I'll be frank. You'll need to sign the Official Secrets Act if you take this job. Ordinarily, no details about the operation would be revealed until you had signed. However, in light of your moral stance and how it affects your work I have been authorised to give you two pieces of information. Firstly, we don't want you to design _anything_. We have in our possession a…device that we'd like your help to get working. And secondly, this device is _not_ a weapon, or at least we're quite certain it isn't. And if it should transpire to be of such a nature, we will do everything we can to safely destroy it."

Sam nodded slowly. "What's the catch?"

Buckland frowned, momentarily confused. "Other than that you'll have to sign the Official Secrets Act before we can give you any more details? None."

Sam weighed the options in her mind, still sleepy. Caught between the job market and the British Army. _Huh._ She'd never have envisaged this situation two years ago.

Being flat broke or working with a military force.

_What the hell. How much worse can it get?_

* * *

**RAF Benson, Sub-Level Eight**

Lieutenant General Gregory Hayes waved for the junior officer before his desk to be seated. "Tom. I understand you've chosen the last men for your team." _Finally_, the sentiment remained unspoken.

Major Thomas Ross of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment nodded, setting down a stack of files. "I took the liberty of preparing their files, assuming you wanted to know the details. These three are the last. I felt that two patrols' worth of troopers would be enough for this job." _If we ever get the bloody thing working,_ he refrained from saying. Hayes knew it was on his mind, though. He privately echoed the sentiment.

The project had existed for almost sixty years now. At least once every decade or so since the Fifties, one of the archaeologists or physicists working on…_it_, it was still hard for him to seriously think of the device by the name that Professor Lacey had translated all those years ago…would get excited and claim they were close to making the device operational. And, to be on the safe side, the Ministry of Defence would give the order that a team be made ready in case they actually pulled it off this time. Hayes pitied Ross and his men; most likely they'd be stuck doing nothing beyond training, retraining and generally getting bored out of their minds for the next couple of years until it was finally accepted that a breakthrough just wasn't happening any time soon.

On this occasion, it had been the 22nd SAS Regiment who had been selected to provide a reconnaissance team. Despite the regiment's name, it was a unit of the British Army whose only connection with aircraft consisted of blowing the things sky-high or jumping out of them at altitudes sometimes in excess of thirty-five thousand feet. A secretive regiment at the best of times, the current members of the team, including Ross himself, had all served at one point or another with the highly-classified J Squadron, a sub-unit successfully kept secret from the rest of the regiment. J Squadron's purpose was to provide a military option for dealing with threats of the supernatural nature.

The fighting arm of the SAS is based on the module of four. Four troopers make up a patrol, four patrols a troop and four troops a 'sabre' squadron. There are four 'line' sabre squadrons: A, B, D and G. These rotate through the regiment's various commitments: Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Malaya, Belize, Jungle Training and Special Projects. Teams could also be assigned to various continuing NATO tasks, and one squadron was kept on stand-by at their base-camp at Hereford to fulfil a Counter-Revolutionary Warfare role in the event of a terrorist incident. Such an incident had brought the regiment to the public eye worldwide when a sabre squadron was sent into the Iranian Embassy in Prince's Gate, London, after terrorists seized the building and took hostages.

Squadron commitments tended to last from six to nine months, although it was not unheard of for a squadron to be scattered all over the world, little gangs here, little gangs there, doing a dozen things at once. The four troops in a squadron are always Air Troop (freefallers), Boat Troop (marine-trained in canoes and subaqua expertise), Mountain Troop (climbers and Arctic-weather warfare specialists) and Mobility Troop (highly skilled in fighting using heavily armed Land Rovers and trained mechanics). All SAS troopers are familiar with all of these skills to a certain extent, but a trooper of a particular troop is an expert in that particular field.

The SAS, one of the oldest military elite units still existing on the planet, is rare among the Special Forces community in that to join the Regiment, an applicant needs to have served at least two years' service in another unit in any branch of the Armed Forces. Most militaries tend to prefer young and male soldiers for front-line units due to the psychological reasons involved; feelings of invulnerability, confidence and optimism, the attitude that their career will be an adventure, and on average males tend to be more highly competitive on the grounds of their testosterone drive. These were exactly the sort of people that the SAS did not want in its ranks under any circumstances.

Soldiers who were still in service after having served several tours of duty and re-enlisted in the British Army were generally considered more likely to be able to keep a cool head under fire. Almost all of those soldiers who applied to go through the six-month intensive Selection and Continuation Training course had served in Northern Ireland for at least one tour of duty, and gained from that the one quality that made the SAS in particular stand out as a fighting force, even amongst the world's Special Forces. They'd been through the pressure cooker of the Ulster proving ground and its resident terrorists. They had been on a station for months on end where the threat of death was a constant, a possibility so all-pervading that anyone who couldn't stand the heat soon got out of the Army, leaving behind men who could face the bitter realities of a soldier's job. Most of the applicants for Selection came from the Army; however, personnel from the Royal Marines and RAF Regiment had applied in the past – and got through.

The SAS ran Selection courses twice a year, once in the summer and again in the winter. A hellish six-month regime, as many as two hundred applicants might be accepted on at the beginning of a Selection course only for a handful of between four and a dozen men at the most – enlisted men and officers – to make it through. Anyone who didn't come up to scratch by even a whisker was marked out by the Directing Staff to be Returned To Unit, or RTU'ed, on the spot, and Platform Four of Hereford's railway station often saw the departure of many an applicant whose hopes had been dashed to pieces. It wasn't a foolproof system, but it was as close as it was possible to get.

No soldier would ever get into the Regiment unless he was a particular type of individual. Whoever it was, they all shared one factor in common: each man was a specific type of person with a peculiar type of intelligence. Each was a self-starter, a lateral thinker, a total believer in the maxim that absolutely anything was possible with a few elastic bands and a big enough ball of string, as long as you thought about it hard and long enough. The Regiment had a can-do attitude that was second to none in the world of Special Forces. In that sense, it was unique.

That was another of the major differences between UK Special Forces and, say, the Americans. In the US military, during a hostage situation they would get their counter-terrorist negotiators from the FBI or State Department. The US Special Forces were seen as fire platforms, as the very best combat monsters in the whole of the American military. Which was fine, as far as it went. But you would never pass Selection for the SAS or SBS on those criteria alone. You had to have real brains these days, as well as brawn, if you were to have a chance of getting in. It was all very well unleashing a Rottweiler, but if you unleashed the Regimental Rottweiler you needed to have a damn good chance of getting your stick back.

On top of their regular troop-specific combat, survival and infiltration training, each soldier was taught at least two specific disciplines that suited his own particular abilities. These might include advanced medicine, demolitions, signals and electronics, tracking, linguistics or sniper duties. Each man was trained to a reasonable level of fluency in at least one other language – usually Malay, as the Malayan government maintained close ties to the Regiment which often deployed there for jungle-warfare training exercises, or Norwegian. The Regiment's members undertook annual winter exercises in Norway, which was possibly the most popular training ground of all among the troopers: very often after a long day climbing the largest mountains they could find, they could spruce up and scream down the town to soak up some of the nightlife.

The SAS was unusual in this sense also: the officers were almost all on temporary attachment from their 'parent' regiments, staying usually two to three years before returning to their parent units. Only the enlisted ranks stayed with the SAS, and not all of them, just the best. The SAS was where the enlisted ranks could get on with soldiering and go 'career' with as little interference as possible. Officers were sometimes regarded by the men they commanded as mere visitors, although there were exceptions who were, like the men they led, exceptional soldiers, and many senior NCOs had gone on to become officers themselves.

There were only three positions in the SAS where officers might expect to lead troopers into battle: these were troop commander, squadron commander and regimental commanding officer. If an officer passed the rigorous Selection and Continuation Training process then regardless of his previous rank he would hold that of a captain, major or colonel respectively for a tour of three years at the most, then return to his parent unit with the option of reapplying for a higher position, although he would have the option of applying for a second tour if he could make it through Selection again. Each time an officer returned to apply for another posting, he would have to go through the Selection process again. The occasional intelligence officer or 'green slime' of the Headshed managed to cling on for maybe as many as a dozen years, but they were the closest to exceptions to the rule. Very few officers were long-stay men, and they were usually in charge of stores or the armoury in SAS Group HQ.

"First, we have Lance-Corporal Gareth Berensen." Hayes took the proffered file and opened it. Berensen's photograph had presumably taken when he'd been 'badged', the traditional acknowledgement of a soldier successfully making it through the gruelling six months' Selection and Continuation Training and being accepted into the SAS with the presentation of the trademark beige beret, Winged Dagger cap badge and dress uniform blue stable-belt. A handsome, strongly featured man of Caribbean descent in his mid-twenties smiled at the camera with a pride that was already modestly restrained. Members of the SAS were supposed to never acknowledge in public the true identity of their regiment, either during or after their service. "He's an expert signaller, and further trained as a sniper specialist on CRW duty – he's the best the Regiment's had in the past decade and has been the Army's sharpshooting champion for the past three years. He's just returned from operations in Ulster with J Squadron's Air Troop." Hayes looked up at this, an eyebrow raised in silent question. He'd served for two tours as the commanding officer for J Squadron during the latter half of the Seventies.

Ross continued. "Berensen's originally from the Paras – he spent seven years with them, and fought at the Battle of Goose Green during the Falklands War. He made it to the rank sergeant of the Sniper Platoon of 2nd Battalion before he joined us." Standard policy with the SAS was for all non-commissioned trainees who made it through Selection to be placed at the rank of trooper, regardless of any previous rank. The Special Air Service operated strictly on the basis of personal merit when it came to promotions. Consequently, most new recruits had held the rank of corporal or greater before getting accepted and therefore already knew the score. "He joined the Regiment back in '88. He's also highly adept with bladed weaponry, has a habit of lugging a samurai sword around, god only knows where he picked it up. I keep expecting a call from the Japanese ambassador asking for it back." Hayes' moustache twitched in amusement at this. "Anyhow, I've been hoping to get him for this since the start, but it was all a question of when he'd be back from combat ops with J Squadron. Berensen bagged the target from close on a mile out, so he's up to scratch on his skills."

"Who were they after?" Hayes knew that with J Squadron it was even money between terrorists and the paranormal, and as he knew from personal experience, the latter could be pretty much anything. He still had the scars on his arm from where a vampire had bitten him back in the early Seventies, and had afterwards served two tours based in Wellington with the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce before transferring to the SAS. Each year on the morning of the Third of July, he would awaken without fail sweating and shuddering from nightmares of the creatures he had fought that terrible dawn in 1975. For a hellish two hours it had looked like an interdimensional invasion could succeed, beginning with New Zealand, and in all honesty it had been that Doctor chap who'd been ultimately responsible for the creatures' defeat.

"Mohra demon, intent on bringing about an apocalypse. Had a habit of slaughtering newborn babies for the blood sacrifices, not too good at covering his tracks though. By all accounts, Berensen seems to have taken the bugger out with a 0.5-inch AP round through the gem those creatures have in their foreheads."

Hayes had to fight a faint flicker of sympathy with the demon. A half-inch calibre armour-piercing round could easily destroy light armoured vehicles and tear through a car's engine block without losing all that much of its velocity. The demon had undoubtedly died in considerable agony.

Another file crossed the desk. "Trooper James Conley. Spent three years with 45 Commando Unit of the Royal Marines. He considered transferring to the Special Boat Service, but decided he'd give dry land a go with us instead. According to his instructors, he's a born natural at reconnaissance and observation. Fluent in seven languages, one of them demonic. He's been with the Regiment for four years now, one of them with J Squadron's Mountain Troop. By all accounts he's got a bloody mountain goat somewhere in his ancestry." Hayes snorted in amusement at this. Conley's photograph showed a nondescript-looking young dark-haired man, his expression carefully blank as he had looked at the camera.

Ross handed over the last file with a little more reluctance, and Hayes knew that there had to be a catch with this one. "I chose this man to serve as the mission's second-in-command. Sergeant Samuel Ashcroft."

Hayes set down Ashcroft's file very carefully, staring intently at the major. He had no need to read it, having worked with the man three years before on OPERATION PINEWOOD, during the outbreak of the Gulf War. He'd done as thorough a background search on him as possible afterwards, and found it disturbing. And that was before he'd been visited by a man who identified himself as an agent from MI-5 and warned Hayes off. Ashcroft was another J Squadron veteran, who'd been shipped out in '82 to the Falklands War with 3 Para at the start of his third year of service in the Army. He'd been badged in early 1984, serving first in B Squadron's Mobility Troop for close on four years, then later transferring to J Squadron for a couple more. Nine months ago he had made sergeant after serving as an instructor for two years with the 21st SAS (TA) (Artists) Regiment, and had only just completed a tour of duty serving in a liaison position between J Squadron and UNIT.

Hayes chose his next words very carefully. "Major…we have enough problems with this project already, and they're only going to get more complex. And Ashcroft…sooner or later, complications follow him." Ross opened his mouth, no doubt to try and protest, justify his choice; the general held up a hand to forestall him. "Tom, I'm not saying no…yet. Do you believe that the benefits will outweigh the problems from having him involved? And can you validate those?"

Ross shrugged. "These men are ideal for if we get the device working this time – they've all experienced combat before, and having served in J Squadron they're experienced in dealing with the supernatural so they should keep themselves together regardless of whatever we run into," he said. "Ashcroft is the best demolitions man in the regiment, and according to popular scuttlebutt he seems to have some skill in computer hacking. Thinks on his feet. A good soldier." Hayes nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "He's a natural survivor; put him in a life-threatening situation and he'll not only find a way out of it but a way to take you with him. If we run into trouble, he should be able to handle things well."

Hayes stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "I hope you're right." He sighed, handing the files back. "When do they arrive?"

"Berensen can be here within three hours – he's in Hampshire getting debriefed, all I need to do is contact Harcourt. Conley lives locally and is on leave at the moment – I'll visit him myself, explain the situation. And Ashcroft…" he trailed off.

Hayes had to suppress a groan. "He's already here, isn't he." It was more a statement than a question.

"No sir. I, ah, had him go with Buckland to collect that astrophysicist, Carter. The American. I told him it was just a bodyguard detail."

* * *

Sam slid across to the middle of the back seat of the Land Rover, peering between the front seats to get a view of the highway – or motorway, as they were locally known – ahead. She knew she'd never get used to the cars here being right-hand drive. 

She'd packed very little, having been assured that today was just an interview. Buckland had been dropped off at Whitehall, and now she was alone with the soldier. He drove swiftly yet cautiously, eyes constantly darting about as though expecting every car around them to contain heavily armed gunmen. He'd exchanged no words with Buckland at any time, and the captain had not been inclined to introduce him. He was well-built but not excessively so, had brown hair that was surprisingly long considering he was in the military, and looked to be somewhere in his early thirties. She had a feeling that in a suit he could easily pass himself off as an ordinary businessman.

Sam tried checking his uniform, to find out more about her mystery driver. Hmm. No shoulder patches. No rank insignia. Her eyes darted to the rear-view mirror, angling her head to check his beret for a cap badge or something. Nope, nothing, just a plain, black, unmarked beret. Hell, he could be a private or a five star general for all she could tell. He had a sidearm holstered on his right hip, which didn't tell her much beyond that whatever project Buckland had recruited her for was very likely a serious endeavour.

She froze, fighting down a sudden surge of panic. Was he even a soldier? Could he be an intelligence agent stuck in a set of camo fatigues? Had these guys even been for real?

She'd signed the Official Secrets Act. Okay. Sure, she wasn't an expert on official British state documents, but it'd looked like the real deal. So the chances were she was going to be okay, that Buckland wasn't just some guy in a costume and this guy wasn't wearing military surplus gear. That was good.

Sam sat back in her seat as the soldier pulled them off the motorway, navigated the junction and headed off down a quiet B-road. Okay. They were going somewhere in the country. Well, if they were heading for a military base, that made sense. You didn't usually stick those in the middle of inhabited areas.

Sunlight briefly shone on something as they turned a corner and Sam's eyes widened slightly. That couldn't be good. Beneath the dashboard, she'd briefly seen the outline of an assault rifle; hidden from prying eyes but ready for use nonetheless. She fought a frown, not wanting her escort to know she'd spotted the weapon. She'd only caught a brief glimpse of it, but it sure didn't look familiar to her. Compact, a scope mounted atop it and the magazine located in the stock, behind the trigger assembly, the case painted a matt-green colour.

So they expected trouble. The good news was they'd taken steps to deal with it. The bad news, of course, was that this confirmed this was a risky job.

Right. She'd had enough of the silence. "Uh, 'scuse me?" She waved briefly to the soldier as he glanced in the mirror at her. "Hi. Look, I was just wondering – where are we going? And is it okay if we talk a little or something?"

He shrugged. "Fine by me, but if you don't mind I'd prefer it if the radio stayed off – easier to detect company that way."

Sam frowned. "So you guys _are_ expecting trouble?"

Another faint shrug. "Hopefully we won't be getting any, but we don't take chances."

"'We'?"

The soldier grinned. "The Armed Forces. Hell, I only just got assigned to this project myself so I don't know what it's about. Sam Ashcroft, Sergeant, Para Reg – that's the Parachute Regiment, by the way. I go by Ash," he added. "And I had a dekko at your file when I was given this assignment. Seems impressive enough."

Sam nodded appreciatively at the compliment. "So where're we headed?"

"RAF Benson, South Oxfordshire."

"Oh – so you're Air Force, then?"

Ash snorted. "Hardly – the Paras are an Army unit," he replied. "Look, you'll prob'ly be running into a lot of military personnel if you take this job, so here's the short version; the Royal Air Force has the RAF Regiment, Army has the Paras and the Special Air Service, and the Royal Navy has Royal Marine Commandos and the Special Boat Service."

This job was getting weirder by the second. "So what are we doing on an Air Force base?"

"From what I've heard, it sounds like a combined arms operation – the RAF supply the base and some transport, we – the Army – provide some squaddies, including yours truly, anyone's guess what for. Haven't had that particular briefing yet. And I haven't a clue where the Navy boys come into things. I heard on the grapevine there's some spooks around the place too."

"Spooks?"

"Yeah, you know – intelligence agents," Ash grimaced. "They never bring good news. Yes, it's handy to know when there's a nuke on the black market or some nutcase has got hold of some semtex, or, favourite of favourites, some gullible idiot's been and shipped a consignment of M-16's to Irish terrorists after hearing a pretty story involving green hills and whisky, but of course it then leads to _someone_—" here Ash winked in the rear-view mirror, "—getting landed with the job of having to _do_ something about it. And, like as not, ending up in the cacky in the process. Hopefully we're just around for extra security. I could use a nice milk run for a change. Here we are."

Security was surprisingly tight. A squad of four military police were on the front gate, armed with holstered sidearms and carrying assault rifles identical to the one under the Land Rover's dash. They certainly weren't messing around. Getting a close look at the corporal leading the squad as he looked into the vehicle, Sam decided they were probably trained experts, not just amateur rent-a-cops. Their eyes just looked different.

As bases went, RAF Benson looked not too dissimilar to the US Air Force bases Sam and her brother, Mark, had stayed at while their dad dragged them around from post to post. True, the signs and spelling were a little different, but there were still the clutter of prefabricated hangars and helicopters scattered around in and in front of them, in some cases being worked on, others warming up their engines or lurking within the hangars.

The sergeant halted them before a large squat-looking three-storey brick building that seemed to sprawl across the landscape behind a clutch of hangars. A six-man squad, this time line soldiers, armed to the teeth, were on duty at what looked to be the main entrance. Unlike Ash, they bore full rank insignia and regimental patches that marked them out as members from the Black Watch Regiment. Ash reached beneath the dashboard, unclipped the assault rifle there, grabbed a kit bag from the front passenger seat and calmly dismounted, motioning for Sam to follow. Two of the Black Watch remained on duty outside the camo-coloured building's double doors, two more clambered into the Land Rover and drove off around the building and the last pair fell into step behind Sam and Ash.

Sam licked her lips nervously as they entered the building. Military brat she may have been, being in the close presence of this much firepower was still unsettling.

The halls were curiously deserted, with only the occasional officer or squad jogging past. Sam began to get the feeling that the building itself wasn't the centre of activity at this project. The hallways were also unusually wide: with careful manoeuvring, you could have driven a vehicle like that Land Rover down them.

Finally, they arrived at an elevator. Stepping inside, Sam was surprised by the number of buttons there were labelled in descending order. Unless she was imagining things, there were at least a dozen or more subterranean levels to the building.

* * *

The lower levels were a good deal busier than those on the surface. 

The corridors had more traffic, for a start. Technicians, officers, a few enlisted soldiers and scientists hurried about, each intent on their own individual destinations. Sam had to maintain a fast pace in order to keep up with the lieutenant she'd been assigned as a guide.

A few minutes ago, when she and her escorts had disembarked the elevator at sub-level eleven; an Army captain behind a security desk had met them. He'd had a pair of files open before him, comparing first her, then Ash to their photographs. They were fingerprinted and the officer, apparently satisfied of a lack of any duplicity, had handed Sam and Ash a pass each. The lieutenant had been summoned and told to take her to the main labs. She hadn't seen Ash since.

The lieutenant – Gibson, she thought his name was – finally came to a halt, opening a door, and, breathing more heavily than she liked, Sam followed him through. And grinned broadly at what lay beyond.

Now this was her idea of a _lab_.

They'd entered a control room, cluttered with computer terminals, wiring and what looked like an old-model Cray. Through the control room's window a much larger room was visible, easily the size of one of the aircraft hangars aboveground. Whoever had set this operation up certainly hadn't stinted on the funding.

In the centre of the hangar there stood an odd ring-shaped monument consisting of two stone rings, one inside the other. The opening they surrounded was a little more than twenty feet in diameter. Seven crimson markers decorated the outer circle, while the inner ring was bedecked with arcane-looking symbols. One or two reminded her vaguely of the hieroglyphics in the classic 'Mummy' movies, but beyond that they were unfamiliar. A metal ramp leading up the centre of the ring obscured the view of anything that might be on the bottom surface of the artefact. A stone monolith and a pedestal, the upper surface slanted to one side, were also important locations in the hangar, surrounded by countless desks flooded with books and papers.

Down in the hangar, a lanky young woman in a ragged and stained donkey jacket was arguing with a short bearded man who was somewhere in his forties in front of a blackboard. A couple of military technicians brandishing clipboards stuffed with paperwork were deep in discussion with an elderly man well into his eighties who leaned heavily on a walking stick, and every so often one of them would gesture at the pedestal or the ring. Power cables, tools and various components lay scattered around the ring.

The control room was just as hectic. A young woman barely in her twenties, straggly dishevelled brown hair tied back with a long-unwashed silk scarf, was hunched over a keyboard, every so often darting over to the Cray and opening it up, fiddling with the circuit boards and even occasionally pounding on the casing while pleading with it. Some more military technicians, marked out by their unit patches as being from the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, a private and a lance-corporal, were setting up a pair of desktop terminals, swearing up a storm under their breath in frustration as they did so.

"Ah! Doctor Carter!" Sam looked around as a short and plump middle-aged woman with ruddy cheeks emerged from behind an overflowing computer desk. She was the sort of woman who automatically triggers off a certain genetic memory in the reptilian back brain of the first teacher you get in school, the one with the tweed skirt and the shoes so sensible they could do their own tax returns, and with special training in dealing with nervous incontinence. "So good of you to join us."

"Uh – but I haven't agreed to anything yet—"

"Yes, yes, all a formality. You won't say no to this job, I can guarantee it! Harker, Doctor Mary Harker," she grasped Sam's hand; the astrophysicist fought to keep from grimacing as her bones were ground together in a vice-like grip. "I'm the head of the research section around here – Clive," she turned her gaze to Gibson, "I think Gregory said he wanted you to stay with Ms. Carter for the time being, give her the tour, get her fed, show her the lavatory, take her to her room and so on. That's all for later though," she continued, looking back at Sam. "You've probably got a lot of questions, Doctor Carter?"

"Uh, yeah? Wh-what's this about?" Sam stammered as Harker led her gently but firmly over to the window. One of the engineers cursed under his breath a few times, whacked the case of a computer tower with his fist a couple of times, and jammed a lead more firmly into its socket. The monitor before him lit up in response and he kissed the screen.

"In a word, those," Harker pointed out of the window at the artefacts that dominated the room. "The tablet, the pedestal and the…Stargate." She sounded proud of the last name. "My mother, Julia Lacey, worked on this project before me. She translated the name, you see. I became an archaeologist, followed in her footsteps you might say."

Harker looked from the Stargate to Sam. "Those artefacts were discovered during the nineteen-twenties in Egypt, Giza to be more precise. It took us – this project, the security services, military intelligence and the government quite some time and digging to put the full story together. Apparently, a Professor Langford studied them for several years there, before they were loaded onto a ship in the Thirties bound for America. But—" she shrugged, "—they hit a snag. The Third Reich, to be exact. Somehow, they found out about the Stargate. Hitler was a complete magpie when it came to certain types of ancient artefacts. A U-boat attacked the freighter, undertook a boarding action. They were in the middle of nowhere. The crew were killed, the artefacts loaded onto another cargo vessel, and the freighter sunk to destroy the evidence.

"The ship that the Gate had been loaded onto ran into a storm upon entering the Channel, took some minor damage along the way. They put into Portsmouth dock for repairs. Funny thing though: the vessel's skipper was suspected of smuggling antiquities. The ship was boarded, and the artefacts confiscated along with the registered cargo. One thing led to another…" Harker shrugged again, grinning broadly, "…and here we are.

"If we're right about the Stargate," Harker nodded at the artefact in question, "if we've translated the hieroglyphs on the tablet correctly, then it's a matter transporter of some sort. Your predecessors believed it opened a stable wormhole. Where to, we're not sure. Could be the other side of the universe or Butlins for all we know. That's what we're here to find out!"

Sam slumped against the desk heavily. She was dreaming. Had to be.

"No, you're not asleep dear." Sam cringed inwardly, realising she must have spoken aloud. "This is only too real."

"So what do you need me for?" Sam asked.

"Very simply, to get it in working order. Doctors Chessel and Horrocks down there–" Harker gestured offhandedly at the couple in front of the blackboard, who were arguing quite heatedly now with much arm-waving and shouting, "—believe we're close to finding the symbols necessary to activate it. Unfortunately, we've hit a snag with actually powering the Gate and operating it. Your credentials speak for themselves; we're rather glad no one snapped you up, a bit of fresh blood around here is just what we need. And the chap with the stick down there is Professor Richards, studied linguistics and now our leading authority on electronics. Funny what studying Open University courses leads to. And over there is Doctor Carol Gladstone, our resident former child prodigy and computer expert," she gestured toward the young woman hunched over the terminals. "There's a few more of us around, you'll meet 'em later. As you can see, we're all one very happy little—"

"YEE-EESSSS!" Carol punched the air viciously, standing so swiftly her chair shot back on its coasters at high speed until it hit the Cray. The young scientist danced inanely, pointing with both middle fingers at the terminal, thrusting her hips in mid-air with the accompanying arm movements. "Gotcha, you li'l bastard! You came, you saw, AND I FUCKED YOU IN THE ARSE! Who's da compy queen, huh!" she asked the room in general.

The engineers exchanged glances as she continued her little jig. "I reckon she's gone to her happy place," the private muttered to the lance-corporal, who nodded sagely in agreement.

"—family," Harker continued, as if nothing had happened.

* * *

As Sam was led off by the officer, Ash turned at the sound of his name being called and grinned broadly. "Scudder!" he yelled in greeting. "How the hell've you been, ya barmy Tyneside bastard!" 

"Ah, fine, fine man! Missin' the Gulf ah'ready, an' ah ne'er thought ah'd hear meself say _that_." Scudder looked a bit shame-faced even as he said it. "Shite, them wuz good days. Great to see ye agin."

To call Corporal Dennis 'Scudder' Hodges a large man was an understatement. Six foot five, head shaven bald because his wife liked the way it looked, brawny, strong as an entire team of oxen and a hardy example of Newcastle stock with an accent thick enough to float rocks to match, he was absolutely huge and dwarfed everyone he met. Ash himself was no lightweight, but next to the Geordie veteran he looked almost fragile. At the ripe old age of thirty-four, Scudder had eighteen years of intense soldiering under his belt, and it looked as though nothing short of a direct hit from a plummeting meteorite could possibly slow him down.

He'd joined the Royal Green Jackets Regiment straight out of school at the age of sixteen and done several tours of duty in Northern Ireland, rising through the ranks until he'd become a platoon sergeant. He had generally been considered an unholy terror by friend and foe alike. The troops had been downright petrified of the thought of incurring his wrath, though they knew he wouldn't hesitate to put his neck on the line to keep them out of trouble or safe, and the officers knew better than to challenge him or his advice. He'd joined the SAS only seven years previously, and if Ash were honest with himself he would have said the older man was set to make sergeant inside of the next year or two, and deservedly so.

They'd first met in '86 when Scudder had been posted to B Squadron's Mobility Troop upon being badged, and the pair had later transferred to J Squadron together. Scudder had served a single ten-month tour with J Squadron before being transferred back to their native B Squadron while Ash remained on with J. Around twenty years back, an officer from the J Squadron Headshed had hit on the idea of rotating a few troopers out of J Squadron to the line squadrons, thus ensuring that if a line squadron ran into anything of a paranormal nature it would have experienced personnel on hand to deal with it. Scudder had been one of those selected for the task that particular year. During the Gulf War he'd acquired his nickname from joyriding around Iraq on attachment to D Squadron in a Pink Panther, or 'Pinky' Land Rover, leading a fighting patrol hunting SCUD and FROG missile launchers and racking up half a dozen kills from hit-and-run attacks alone in the process.

"So, is this a mixed op?" Ash asked as they re-entered the lift, Scudder leading the way and pressing the button for sub-level twelve. Ash slung his SA80 over his shoulder, and allowed himself to relax slightly now he was in the company of a fellow trooper.

Scudder nodded. "Oh, aye – there's me and a coupl'a other lads from B Squadron here as well as some more from J. Mind ye, the boys from B are all ex-J Squadron."

Ash grimaced as the lift doors opened and the NCOs stepped out. "Oh please, for fuck's sake tell me we aren't going to stop a bloody apocalypse or something," he moaned. "I had enough of dealing with that crap during the Gulf."

"Nah, calm doon ya daft bugger, this is tot'ly different." Privately, Scudder wondered just what exactly Ash had been up to. True, when they'd been new in J Squadron they'd been through some pretty hairy times together, but an apocalypse? That was not something Scudder himself had ever encountered.

Ash sighed, relieved. "Great. So 're you going to tell me what the hell this all is about or what?"

"Well, there's two more lads from J Squadron due in today – ya might want to wait a bit, like, get the full intel with 'em. 'Sides, old Ross can explain it better."

Thomas Ross had first crossed paths with Ash and Scudder during their early days in J Squadron. Back then he'd been in command of the squadron's Mobility Troop, and had been a reasonable soldier. He didn't try and be one of the lads, for the simple virtue that for all intents and purposes he was one. Like the best officers to serve in the Regiment's ranks, he wasn't there for simple career advancement. His presence in a fighting patrol usually meant that the team became deadlier and it was just a bit more bearable slogging through sweltering jungle, tabbing over burning desert sands or storming a high-rise block of flats, whereas at the other end of the spectrum there were a (thankfully very rare) few officers who put a dampener on things and came close to being dead-weights in combat. But it was still standard practice to rib the major every so often, just to make sure he felt accepted.

"Pity – he had such promise as a soldier, then he goes and gets presentation skills and turns into a Rupert after all," Ash said, shaking his head mock-ruefully at the 'tragedy' of the major's situation.

"Aye, it's a sad fact that and no mistake," Scudder agreed, grinning.

"So who're these other lads, then?" Ash asked. "And how many of us are there on this job?"

"Well, so far there's me, Sid Vicious an' Froggy Longley from B Squadron and you, Ross and Nev Hardcastle 're here a'ready from J. The two new lads comin' in this afternoon – an' they look like the last of us for noo – there's this lad, Jimmy Conley – ye know, short-ish basturd. Ah met 'im when he got badged and put in B Squadron 'fore he went off te fight the weird crap, c'n move like a bleedin' rabbit heided for a brothel e'en if he's got a hundred 'n' twenty poond bergen on his back. And there's this sniper bloke ah've never huid of – Gareth Berensen, 'e's a lance corporal. Think he used te be in D Squadron."

Ash shook his head slowly. "Nah, he don't ring any bells. What're the Black Watch guys like?"

"Good enough." Which just about summed up Scudder's opinion of them. Earning such an appraisal from the Geordie veteran was a considerable feat. "Ah checked wi' Sid, 'e says he doesn't recognise anyone." It was standard policy for SAS troopers to identify themselves as still being with their parent regiments if asked and never as being members of 'the Regiment' as they called it. Indeed, in the event of their deaths any official mention of their passing would list them as belonging to their parent regiment and not the SAS. Sid 'Vicious' Kay had served with the Black Watch before putting in for Selection, which could have potentially caused problems if he'd been recognised by an old friend.

"Least we're covered on that front. So, you done a recce of this place yet?"

"Well, whoever built this pit knew what they was doing – runs for fucking miles. Ah reckon it's bigger'n the base up above," Scudder jerked his thumb toward the ceiling in emphasis. "Built from scratch – they ain't refitted a coal mine or summat. Looks bloody ancient, though. Think they built it before the Second World War. We got more labs'n we know what ta fucking do with, oor own hospital, – an' ye want ta watch out in there, there's a sick sadomasochist bitch of a doc runnin' that place – and the armoury was put t'gether with us in mind judging by the vari'ty of kit. There's these rooms with sun lamps in so someone thinks we'll be doon a long time, and best of all – ye'll love this! – they've got a Killin' Hoose, all set up faur us!"

"Why do I get the feeling," Ash said slowly, "that we – you, me, Ross and the lads – are being set up to be dropped in some of the deepest and the shittiest shit that any Rupert has ever found for us?"

"So it's no jus' me then? Good ta know."

"Fucking brilliant. It's a weirdo op, right?"

"Aye, moore's the pity," Scudder said, his mood turning gloomy. "An' we could be stuck here fer ages while they boffins arse aboot."

"So, if we don't get sent on a suicide mission, by the time we come out we could be ready for fuckin' retirement? Oh, _great_," Ash groaned sarcastically.

"Just so long as the doc here en't runnin' the ol' farts home is all ah'm sayin'."

"Yeah, well you'll be all right won'tcha? Your wife and kiddies can visit you. Come t'think of it, you might have grandchildren by then."

"Aw, fer cryin' oot loud, man! Don't gi' me nightmares, eh! Anyway, this's our basha doon here." Scudder indicated a row of doors.

Ash frowned, gently nudging one of them with his boot and peering into the unlit bedroom beyond. "We get our own rooms? No doubling up? What next – ensuites?"

Scudder grinned sheepishly as the sergeant stepped inside and cursed upon finding just such a facility. "Y'know, it's funny ye should say that…"

Ash looked at him incredulously, tossing his kit bag on the bed. "Suicide mission."

"Yeah," Scudder nodded gloomily.

"Shite."

"C'mon," Scudder nudged him. "I'll show ye around, an' ye can drop that bullpup off 'n' all."

* * *

Sam smiled weakly at Gibson and thanked him, confirming that, yes, she was confident enough to find her own way around for now, no problem. 

In short, she'd signed on.

It had been a long day. Forms had been produced. Forms had been signed. Harker had introduced her to a variety of people working here, including Nicholas Tyrell from MI-5, the project's chief intelligence officer; the chief medical officer Laura Wilson, who'd seemed quite friendly enough; and the commanding officer, General Hayes. Upon asking him about paratroopers being stationed at the base, he'd smiled kindly and simply said that there were some details she wasn't yet cleared to know. Sam had chosen to leave it there, due to exhaustion and the implication that answers would be forthcoming in the future.

And beyond this drab-looking door, apparently, was the room she'd been allocated while staying on the base.

A noise issued forth from beyond the door – three repeating noises, to be exact. They sounded vaguely familiar somehow, but she was too tired to be able to place them. She opened the door, fully intent on crashing for the night. She could get driven back to London tomorrow, pick up some stuff…

A baseball bounced off the floor, impacted with the wall beside her head, rebounded into the ceiling, bounced one last time and landed squarely in the hand of the person who'd thrown it, who was lying sprawled on one of the pair of beds. "Oops," she grinned sheepishly. "Sorry – I wasn't expecting a flatmate any time soon."

Sam looked muzzily at the young oriental woman. "Uh, hi? I just got shown here, told I could spend the night here…"

"Yeah, same with me. Tricia, Doctor Tricia Su. I'm a biologist, and until someone gets that Gate working I've got sod all to do. Hence the Steve McQueen routine." Tricia shrugged. "You?"

"Sam Carter, I'm an astrophysicist. I just got here."

"Ah!" Tricia leapt up off her bed, grabbing Sam by the shoulders. "Get it working! I've been stuck in _here_ most of the time on the off-chance that someone'll get it working, and so far zilch has happened! I'll do anything – caddy your golf clubs, bear your children as a surrogate mother, _ANYTHING!_ Open the Gate, please?" She sighed. "Sorry. Pent-up frustration. I'm just fed up with sitting around on my arse the whole time."

"Yeah…" Sam looked at her…'flatmate'…oddly. She could tell things were going to be interesting around here.

* * *


	2. The Opening

'_**Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference.'**_

—**Robert Frost**

**Chapter Two: The Gateway Opens**

**Part Two of Nine**

**The Opening**

**Thursday 18th May 1993**

**0802 hours**

Four terrorists were standing with two hostages sitting on chairs in the middle of the room, placed back to back. A narrow window was placed in the middle of one wall, and each of the tangent walls had a door in the far corner.

The assault team had planned their attack meticulously. Getting Gareth into a sniping post would have been favourite, but one hostage had already been killed a quarter of an hour ago, a few minutes before the team had arrived on-site at the holding area, and the next killing was due within five minutes' time. Outside the door that led into a corridor were four assaulters fully clad in three layers of clothing: flame-retardant underwear, very much like racing drivers wore; NBC (_Nuclear, Biological and Chemical_) suits over these to protect them from any gas that might be used by either side; then one-piece flame-retardant black coveralls over the lot, topped off with Kevlar body armour, over which were strapped their ops waistcoats; respirator masks and kid leather gloves.

The other door led into a storage room in which another terrorist was ensconced. Two more similarly-kitted assaulters, Gareth Berensen and Alfred 'Froggy' Longley, had managed to approach that side of the building unnoticed, and were waiting crouched below the room's window, ready to stand and fire as soon as the attack commenced. The last assaulter, Jimmy Conley, had accompanied them and continued on to his current position, flat against the wall beside the window of the target room.

"Four minutes thirty seconds," came the team commander's voice over the radio, counting down the time to the next execution.

The assault group readied itself as the team leader tapped the TRANSMIT key on his radio headset twice in acknowledgement, each tap emitting a squelch of static. Each member of the team was equipped with thirteen-shot 9-millimetre Browning automatic pistols strapped to their hips as backup weapons, flashbang or stun grenades, filled with magnesium powder and designed to blind temporarily by their flash and deafen by their crack, but not to kill, and Heckler & Koch MP5s as their primary weapons. A short-barrelled 9-millimetre rapid-fire submachine gun, light, easy to handle and very reliable, with an up-and-over folding stock, the MP5 was the Regiment's weapon of choice for hostage rescue operations. Additionally, it was British of all things, Heckler & Koch being part of British Aerospace.

The streamlight torches attached to the MP5s were zeroed to the weapon so that the troopers could use the beam for aiming as well as simply penetrating darkness or smoke. The troopers used the torches even in the daytime as they made such good aiming aids. There were little nuts and bolts to enable you to move the torch around; you zeroed it so that when the torchlight was on the target at so many metres, the rounds were going to go so high or so low from it. In a dark room, Maglites also had a good blinding effect on the people you were attacking.

It had already been decided that firing as usual would be the formula of two fast bursts of two shots each. Although the MP5 could empty its thirty-round magazine in a couple of seconds, the SAS were accurate enough even in the confused conditions of a terrorist-hostage situation to limit their firing to two-shot bursts, with one repeat. Anyone stopping those four rounds speedily feels quite unwell. Such economy also keeps hostages alive. Some of the shooters had their weapons set to semi-automatic; however, Scudder and Jimmy had elected to keep their weapons set to full automatic. It was a personal choice, based on what each man knew worked best for himself.

The front pair of troopers in the four-man entry team consisted of Sid 'Vicious' Kay and Neville Hardcastle, who were additionally equipped with a sawn-off, pump-action Remington Wingmaster shotgun with the butt taken off, fondly known as the 'Barclaycard' after the old advertising slogan 'A Barclaycard gets you anywhere', loaded with solid heads known as 'Hatton rounds' in the cartridges rather than buckshot, and a heavy sledgehammer respectively. Their MP5s were worn slantwise across the chest, held in place by two springclips and already cocked and loaded. This left their arms free for door-opening, entering through windows or throwing stun grenades. Once that was done, a single jerk would bring the HK off the chest and into operation in less than half a second. Nev was also carrying a set of bolt cutters in case the door, having lost its hinges, was held at the other side by several bolts and a chain. He had his hammer swung back, aimed at the door's lock. It was not known if the door was locked or not, but chances couldn't be taken. Behind the 'door squad' were Ash and Scudder, MP5s up and ready for use.

Ash gave the command on the net: "Hello all stations, I have control. Stand-by, stand-by, _go!_"

As the second "Stand-by" was given there was a roar, then another, so close together they were almost as one as the Barclaycard blew out the door's hinges. The noise drowned out the sound of the sledgehammer, one good swing of which cleanly smashed out the lock. At the same instant as Sid pulled the trigger on the Barclaycard, Jimmy and Froggy grabbed flashbangs from their webbing. Froggy and Gareth rose, the former throwing his flashbang through the storeroom window, the latter covering with his MP5, firing a brace of double-taps and dropping the back-door guard. At the same time, Jimmy chucked his flashbang blindly through the target room's window, smashing it. The twin explosions of the flashbangs coincided with the Barclaycard's roars, combining to almost completely drown out the noise of Gareth's shots.

As soon as he'd fired his two shots, Sid Vicious stepped smartly to one side, dropped the Barclaycard and flicked his MP5 forward and out as Ash burst through where Sid had been standing and stormed the target room. These actions were being mirrored by Nev and Scudder, the medic getting out of the way and the Tyneside-born corporal rushing through. MP5s now up, Sid Vicious and Nev followed hot on the heels of the NCOs as backup.

The second he'd lobbed the grenade, Jimmy had flicked his MP5 forward and out, appearing at the window even as Ash and Scudder rushed through the door. The former Royal Marine fired off two quick double-taps, nailing the nearest terrorist. At the same time, Ash and Scudder took out two more on the move, the former hugging the wall that ran perpendicular to the door, the latter stepping smartly sideways. This cleared Sid Vicious and Nev's line of fire to take out the last terrorist together.

A klaxon sounded, signalling the end of the drill. The room's lights came on, and the SAS team promptly pushed back their hoods and removed their respirators.

"'Ey, nice one, Jimmy," Scudder grinned through the thick sheen of sweat that had built up under the suffocating layers, offering a hand to the scout and helping him in through the smashed window.

"Thanks, Scud. You did pretty well yourself, I see," Jimmy nodded at the plywood Figure 11 in question, which had two holes through the head, one a little ragged around the edges from where the second and third rounds had gone through behind the first, the other hole only a couple of millimetres from the first.

"Boss? How long?" Ash asked, keying his radio. Even though the exercise was over, he remained all business.

"Completely?" Major Ross' voice came over the radio. "Nine minutes twenty-six seconds from the holding area to completion. For the actual assault: three point one seconds from when that shotgun went off. How're the hostages?"

Ash and Nev checked the targets on the chairs. "This one's okay, Ash," the medic said.

"Yeah, this one's alive too," Ash confirmed. "Chalk this one up as a success, boss. All right lads, time for the after-action."

The other troopers filed out, discussing the exercise already. Ash shook his head, falling into step behind them. It wasn't as good as a proper 'Killing House', or Close Quarters Battle (_CQB_) House. In the one at Hereford, they had three copies of the same room, one for the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare team, one for the 'hostages' and the last one for the 'terrorists', usually more CRW troopers. Cameras would record what each group was doing and display it on wraparound screens set in the walls of the other two rooms. The best way to fight any enemy was to understand them as much as possible, to be able to put yourself into their position. And with terrorists, part of learning how to fight them was knowing how to be one. And the troopers of the Regiment, particularly the CRW, were among the best.

Officially, those members of the team from B Squadron had been reassigned to CRW training duties. As far as even the commanding officer of the Regiment and the Director of Special Forces were concerned, they'd been further reassigned to test and evaluate new urban warfare techniques. Ash snorted to himself. All in all, this was turning out to be one tedious assignment. There was no way of knowing what kind of terrain they'd face if they ever travelled through the Stargate, and while they were all trained for survival and combat in desert, jungle, mountainous and artic terrain, it was impractical for the team to leave RAF Benson for prolonged periods of time for refresher courses. Hence this substitute…an inadequate substitute, if the sergeant were honest with himself. Still, it was better than nothing.

They had most weekends off due to the slow nature of the work on the project, which was for most of the troopers a blessing. But whenever they were off the base, they had to carry their pagers at all times, and if they went off, well, that was it – get to RAF Benson pronto, any way you could. Just like being on CRW duty, really. You got the call, hopped in your car or on your bike (a few troopers during the Regiment's history had been members of the Hell's Angels and various motorcycling clubs) or whatever, made hell-for-leather for the base and got kitted up sharp-ish. Except, the sergeant reflected gloomily, it was unlikely that would happen any point in the near future. Such a waste of time.

* * *

**Tuesday 8th June 1993**

**0917 hours**

Sam Carter grinned to herself, triple-checking the symbols on the scrap of paper taped to the side of her computer monitor. After three months, they'd finally cracked it.

The Gate worked. Her predecessor, a Doctor Theodore Watkins, had been much closer to getting it functioning and finding the safest operational power levels than anyone had suspected. Unfortunately, he'd met a watery demise when on a particularly wet and stormy night at Laleham in Surrey he'd accidentally driven his car into the Thames and left behind a rather old and crumbling mansion in the Midlands with an extensive tabloid newspaper collection in the cellar and his notes on the Stargate for posterity. It had taken Sam only a month to develop his work to such an extent that the Project had a working Stargate.

And at long last, the archaeologists and linguists had come through for them. It had been Marie Horrocks who'd identified the seventh symbol from the tablet, the point of origin in the co-ordinates. Sam shook her head over that symbol, even as at his terminal Lance Corporal Gary Bridgman began charging up the power generators. Such a simple looking thing; an upturned 'V' shape with a small circle at the apex.

Something so simple had held them up for two months.

Down in the hangar, only six REMEs were present, clad in heavy-duty radiation suits and huddled around making last-minute checks on a robotic probe. The blast doors were sealed, and a shield had been lowered in front of the control room. They were relying on the feeds from the security cameras within. Everything else, the pedestal, tablet, blackboard, desks and papers had been removed, stripping the hangar bare.

On the overhead screens, the Stargate could be seen powering up. The inner ring slowly span, groaning gently as if in protest. Small tendrils of steam or smoke were drifting lazily from the Gate. Sam hit a key, and the inner ring stopped moving. One of the crimson markers, now glowing, sprang down from the outer ring over the symbol beneath.

"Chevron One encoded," Bridgman intoned.

Sam hit another key. The chevron marker snapped back into place, displaying the 'locked' symbol. The inner ring started rotating again.

It was crowded in the control room. Someone had installed a star chart that looked as though it was from the same suppliers that NASA used. Quite a few of the archaeologists had insisted on being present for the first dialling. General Hayes was also there, along with a major whose purpose no-one was entirely certain of, other than presumably the major himself and the general.

Ross watched expectantly as the second chevron was locked. It wouldn't be long now. Soon his team could at long last do the job they'd come to do. He smiled tightly as a third chevron thumped into place on the Stargate.

"Chevron Three encoded!"

Tricia Su was also on hand, ready to monitor the probe's telemetry relating to its payload. Various amoebas, viral cells, a petri dish's worth of artificially grown human skin cells and several ants were aboard, all to better evaluate the safety of Gate travel.

"Chevron Four encoded!" The Gate was shaking a little by now.

Carol Gladstone was making last-minute ministrations to the Cray in the back of the control room. Sam had been surprised and delighted when the computing specialist had shown her that the Cray was connected up to a much larger mainframe two storeys up, which was heavily guarded by an entire section of Black Watch.

Carol had built the thing from scratch, press-ganging the entire platoon of engineers assigned to the Project for six months solid, turning out microchips of her own design. Each silicon chip had sixty percent of the processing power of a Cray. Each board held eighty such chips; each bank held two hundred boards. The entire monstrous contraption – two hundred and thirty seven banks – occupied a warehouse-sized space that spanned three floors.

Carol had gutted and cannibalised a second-hand Cray that had first seen service with MI-6 during the Sixties and had been surplused out upon replacement. Under Carol's sometimes-not-so-gentle attentions, it had been converted into an interface between the mainframe, dubbed 'Leviathan', and the control room terminals.

"Chevron Five encoded!"

Every precaution that could be taken was being taken. Clad in radiation suits, teams of medical personnel waited outside the hangar's blast doors and the control room. Within the control room, Private Fowler flicked up a plastic cover and held his thumb poised over the ominously glowing red button that was the 'kill switch'. "Standing by!" he shouted over the Gate's rumblings. If it looked as though something was going wrong, it was hoped that engaging the kill switch and cutting all power to the Gate would at least reduce the collateral damage. Although, what could go wrong and how useful cutting the power feed, or even if there'd be enough advance warning to use the switch, were all unknown quantities.

"Chevron Six encoded!"

The Gate was shuddering violently now. Up in the control room, Doctor Chessel took a cautious step backwards. Carol spat out a particularly vile curse as her coffee mug jumped from the desk and shattered on the floor. The engineers in the hangar ran a final set of checks on the probe, to keep themselves occupied as much as anything else.

Sam stabbed at the keyboard. The inner circle stopped. The last marker descended over the symbol beneath.

"Chevron Seven…locked!"

The shaking stopped.

If you took a giant wave off Maui, and funnelled it into a cylinder, and whooshed it out of a straw…if you took the geyser Old Faithful and set it on its side…you might have an image to work with. It was blue. It certainly wasn't water.

It was light, or plasma, or something, and it vomited forth from the Stargate toward the control room. Then it swooshed back into itself, but the observers in the hangar and the control room couldn't see the back wall of the hangar anymore, except with cameras placed behind the Gate; the azure plasma stuff had settled into the diameter of the ancient monument like quicksilver covering the surface of a mirror.

Hayes nodded in satisfaction, grasping a microphone. "Send in the probe," he ordered. One of the engineers in the hangar gave the cameras a thumbs-up, then turned back to the little machine.

The probe crept up the ramp on its little caterpillar tracks, vanishing into the glittering cerulean fluid. On various computer screens around the control room, personnel monitored the so-far blank readouts of the probe's telemetry. On one particularly prominent screen, the heading "MOLECULAR DECONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS" was prominent, accompanied by a small graphic representing the probe. On the star map, the indicator whined.

Five seconds later, blank screens exploded into life. Telemetry readouts from the probe's various devices and sensors flooded onto the monitors, and a video feed was displayed on one of the more visible screens in the room.

"Atmosphere: high concentrations of nitrogen and carbon monoxide, at least thirty percent methane—"

"Gravity at three percent Earth standards—"

The indicator tracked and panned across the star map.

"—organic samples have survived and seem to be healthy—"

"—probe is somewhere in the Northern Spiral Arm of the Milky Way—"

The Gate sputtered, then again, then died completely.

* * *

It took six hours to compile all the data gathered by the probe. At last, the various scientists, heads of department and a few officers were crowded about a briefing table.

"Right," Hayes began. "What do we know now that we didn't know yesterday?"

"Well, we know that the Gate works and it goes a lot further afield than Butlins," Doctor Chessel said dryly.

"The planet was extremely inhospitable," Sam added, "Nothing could survive there. The atmosphere's lethal, and the gravity is extremely weak."

"So an expedition with humans is out of the question?" asked the unknown major from earlier.

"I'm afraid so," Sam replied.

Doctor Harker began passing around a still shot from the probe's video feed. "There seems to be an identical pedestal on the other side. We've always known the symbols of the pedestal and the Stargate match; Marie—" she gestured to Doctor Horrocks, "—and I believe that they might be some sort of control device. Unfortunately, the pedestal we have seems to be inoperable – unless and until someone gets a close look at an operational one, we've no way of knowing how to repair it."

"Is there any way we could ascertain whether such a device is functional or not with a probe?" the major asked.

Harker shook her head. "Not with the information we have at this time," she said. "If we can get a probe to be present when someone uses a pedestal to activate another Stargate, maybe we'll find a way."

"So that would necessitate sending a team through? And if the pedestal is inoperable—"

"Or we don't know the correct symbols," Harker pointed out.

"—right, then the team would be stranded?" The major didn't sound particularly enthralled with this information.

"That is correct, yes. We could still 'dial' the world they were on, and radio frequencies seem to be capable of travelling both ways, but a team couldn't return via a wormhole we opened from Earth."

Tricia coughed politely. "Well, it looks safe enough to for human travel – the organic samples survived just fine."

"Very well," Hayes sighed. "Is there anything we can do about those vibrations? I needn't remind anyone that we are more than five hundred feet underground; a cave-in is the last thing we need."

"I think we can do something about that, sir." That was Lieutenant Mason, the officer in command of the engineers assigned to the Project. A tall, heavy-set man, a casual observer would never guess that he possessed a triple figure IQ and held a master's degree in particle physics. "I know a few people in the Royal Artillery, we can adapt some of the kit they use on the heavier guns. That ought to deal with most of the vibrations. I'll get my lads on that immediately."

Hayes nodded, satisfied. Something else solved. "Doctor Harker, is it possible that you and your colleagues will find another address from that tablet? Is it even likely that the Stargate goes other places?"

Harker looked at Horrocks, then Chessel. Receiving a nod from the former and a shrug from the latter, she turned back to Hayes. "It's possible. No guarantees, mind you, but now we know the point of origin symbol for Earth we just need to get a combination of six that work. I don't see why it shouldn't go elsewhere."

"Now we know that we only need six symbols, Leviathan should be more useful," Carol said. "It's really just a case of cracking the code, when you get right down to it. We'll need to dial 'blind' quite a lot, but once we start getting some addresses that work, I think Leviathan should be able to extrapolate from the data and start finding active addresses faster."

"One thing we need to bear in mind is, well, space," Sam spoke up. "The stars orbit within the galactic disc – they're constantly changing position, even if they do stay roughly in the same galaxy."

Harker smiled in understanding. "So in the thousands of years since the Stargate was built—"

Sam nodded. "The coordinates could have changed."

Mason frowned. "But why does it still work between Earth and that lump of rock we found?" he objected.

Sam had been considering the problem all afternoon and was ready for this one. "It could be that planet is the closest in the network to Earth," she said. "I mean, the closer they are, the less the difference in relative position due to the motion of the stars. The further away, the greater the difference. In a few thousand more years, it might not work between Earth and that planet either."

"Unless you can adjust for the displacement," Carol realised.

"Right," Sam grinned at her. "All we have to do is correct for the motion of the stars in the galactic disc. Then we should be able to arrive at a computer model that will predict the adjustments necessary to get the Gate working again. Any civilisation advanced enough to build this Gate network would be able to compensate for fifty thousand years of stellar drift. The only problem is we don't have a basis for this model – if we do find somewhere we can send people to, I'd recommend they take a real good look around for a map of some kind."

The major definitely didn't look too happy at this. "Thank you, doctors," Hayes said before the junior officer could voice any protests on the subject.

* * *

That evening, the news was not greeted enthusiastically by the SAS troopers.

"So, we en't goin'," Scudder spoke for them all.

Ross sighed. "No."

"An' even if we dae find somewhaur safe te go, there's no guarantee we'll be able te get back."

"No."

"An' the only good news is, if we _dae_ find somewhere te go, we ain't goin' te get splatted or summat by the Gate?"

"Yes."

Gareth snorted with disgust. "Fan-bleeding-tastic," he groaned. "Even longer stuck down this shithole."

"Dunno 'bout you lot, but I never heard of there being a 'Hole Troop' in any of the squadrons," Sid Vicious grimaced. "How long before they rotate some other poor sods in, boss?"

Ross shrugged. "No clue. I think they'll stick with us for now. Could be months, could be years."

"Years!" Scudder all but exploded. "Bollocks to that, man! Seriously?"

Froggy, who'd acquired his moniker on the basis that he was widely acknowledged as the most experienced deep-sea diver in the Regiment and had in his possession a personalised t-shirt bearing the legend _"FROGMEN DO IT UNDERWATER"_, put a bookmark in his copy of Homer's _The Iliad_. "So, we're stuck down 'ere, running through exercises for hell knows how long?" the South London native said calmly. "How's about some outdoor training at least, eh? I mean, it's the least we could 'ave, right? Maybe go up to Brecon?"

Ross sighed. He wasn't too fond of this piece of regulation himself, but understood the need for it. "No change, I'm afraid. We do all our training on-base for now."

The room exploded with a storm of complaints.

* * *

**Saturday 10th July 1993**

**2030 hours**

The day had started badly. Unbeknownst to anyone working at the Project, it was about to get even worse that evening.

It was, Sam Carter decided as she put down her radio handset, extremely difficult and annoying to hold an argument with someone who was two floors up and, knowing Carol, undoubtedly up to her armpits in the entrails of the Leviathan. The argument had begun over a single line of code in the random-dialling program they'd been working on, and developed into a complex and rambling disagreement about even the basic formulaic structure of the program. In theory, Carol was meant to be realigning the Leviathan and Sam adjusting the power regulation systems in synchronisation. In actuality, each of them kept having to stop every two minutes to continue their side of the dispute.

Groaning as Carol continued a long, rambling and disjointed tirade about American superiority complexes and the failed attempts to invade Canada for three years running in the nineteenth century despite a superiority of numbers, pausing every so often to curse or praise various components of Leviathan, Sam frowned at the sound of a strange rumbling noise. Peering over the computer monitor and out of the control room window at the Stargate, her eyes widened as she realised the inner circle was moving. It stopped and one of the seven markers on the outer ring slid down over the symbol beneath, glowing crimson as it did so. The inner circle began rotating again, and the process repeated itself with another marker.

Someone was 'dialling' Earth.

By now, every one of the assembled scientists and military personnel in both the control room and the hangar had their attention focused on the Stargate. One of the engineers grabbed a phone from its cradle on the wall and began speaking urgently into it. By now, the scientists down in the hangar were backing away from the ramp with almost indecent haste. Sam noted, almost distractedly, that the modifications made by Mason's team greatly reduced the vibrations from the Gate.

The seventh chevron locked.

The Stargate belched open, the 'wave' engulfing an abandoned tripod-mounted video camera. As the energy settled into place, the stumps of the tripod legs dropped to the grill mesh. Sam winced. Something new they'd have to make a note of: you didn't want to get too close when the Gate was opening up.

Then someone stepped – no, more _marched_ – through the Gate. Several armoured someones, in fact.

Chainmail undershirts seemed to cover most of their bodies. Each wore an ornate breastplate, which was joined by a well-forged gorget to a helmet fashioned in the shape of an outsized serpent's head, the eyes glowing a baleful vermilion hue. Fine chain loincloths flowed from their belts, heavy metal boots and bracers adorned their calves and forearms. Each carried a staff, about six feet in length and bedecked with intricate patterns and symbols. A pod-like bulge was at the upper end of each staff, a paddle-shaped protuberance at the opposite end. Grasping the staffs at smaller swellings upon their shafts, the intruders, six in all, filed down the ramp.

Those scientists and techs still in the hangar halted in their tracks as though enthralled, unwilling to disturb the tableau unfolding before them.

The Gate's event horizon rippled again and three more figures stepped from the wormhole. Where most of the intruders' armour was a dull-grey colour, the central figure's armour was tinted with a decadent gold. Their helmets snapped abruptly open.

They were human. Or at least, they looked human enough.

The apparent leader and one of his guards looked to be of African descent; the other guard was Caucasian, bearded and appeared to be older than his companions. Each guard had a golden tattoo crudely depicting a double-headed serpent upon his forehead.

Their leader's eyes flashed gold, and he spat out a command in a language Sam had never heard before. Unbeknownst to the astrophysicist, it hadn't been spoken on Earth for almost ten thousand years.

Immediately, the front pair of intruders transferred their staffs to a single hand, reaching for their gauntlets and removing curved, serpentine-looking devices. With a faint whining noise, the upper portions of the devices snapped upwards, looking for all intents and purposes like snakes' heads. Taking aim at the nearest couple of engineers, the weapons spat blue spiralling bolts of energy. The engineers spasmed as the blasts hit them, slumping to the floor. The other intruders twisted their staffs' handgrips, snapping open the tips of the weapons with a whine of energy and a crackle of golden light dancing around the parting pod segments.

This immediately spurred the hangar into a hive of activity. A couple more engineers made to grab their fallen comrades, one going down to an energy blast himself, the other managing to dodge as the serpentine weapons fired, shots scattering everywhere. The hangar cleared swiftly, the intruders marching relentlessly from the ramp, firing as they came. One grabbed up a fallen figure in a donkey jacket, and then a blast from one of the staffs tore through the control room window. Sam ducked, diving beneath the computer desk as glass shards came raining down.

* * *

Boots pounding, the platoon thundered down the corridor, speed taking priority over stealth. Captain Robert Trentford waved off Corporal Sachs' squad toward the steps leading to the control room, and signalled for Corporal Stockbridge to take his section to circle around and secure the other blast door.

Such reports as had reached the guard station had been vague: intruders in the Gateroom, shots fired, personnel down. Numbers, equipment, hell, even species – all unknown.

Trentford was relatively young, having graduated with honours from Sandhurst only five years previously and swiftly risen up the rank ladder. It was a tradition in his family that at least one man from each generation serve his country as an officer and a gentleman, although the Great War had wiped out sixteen men and boys by the name of Trentford in the trenches and left only one, Robert's great-grandfather, to continue the family line.

For his part, Robert was optimistic and rather enjoying his service, even despite the fact that he was currently stuck with the night shift guard detail. It was, in his opinion, unfortunate that the Black Watch hadn't been posted to the Gulf during the war and thus he had yet to prove himself in combat, but there was always the chance that he could get himself assigned to a United Nations peacekeeping task force in the future. And he seemed to have a golden opportunity today. Lieutenant McIntyre, the commander of Eight Platoon, had been hospitalised after an attack of appendicitis, and three other members of the platoon, including Sergeant Lennox, were on leave, necessitating Trentford, the company's second in command, to stand in as the platoon's Officer Commanding.

SA80s ready and Trentford at their head, Corporal McAllen's squad reached the easternmost blast door. At Trentford's curt hand signals, two troopers raced to the far side of the door. Carrying the squad's L86 Light Support Weapon variant of the SA80, Private Dalgliesh was the first in through the blast door, McAllen only a step behind him and Trentford with two more troopers backing them up. Across the hangar, Stockbridge's squad was breeching the other blast door.

An energy blast tore through McAllen's body armour, throwing him to the floor. Dalgliesh dove for cover behind a desk, overturned in the scientists' haste to leave the hangar, and came up firing. Trentford joined him, assessing the situation as the blast shield came down in front of the control room. At least Sachs had things under some sort of control, then.

Nine hostiles, equipped with directed-energy weapons – Trentford's common sense insisted this couldn't be possible, but his training told him to simply accept the impossible for the time being and get on with more important things – and a bunch of engineers taking casualties. By the looks of things, there was someone in a donkey jacket and an engineer being manhandled by the trio at the back of the pack and there was a strange golden glow, but between the weapons fire and dodging for cover he could neither see nor hear what was going on properly.

Trentford keyed his radio. "Stockbridge! Hold your position and give us covering fire, as soon as we've got the casualties out of here Sachs can seal the place off!"

So saying, the captain opened fire as the second four-man 'brick' of the squad fired around the gaping blast door. Dalgliesh emptied his LSW into the nearest hostile without achieving much beyond scratching the armour's paint. Across the hangar, one of Stockbridge's troopers fell as a staff blast tore into his stomach, lifting him briefly off the ground and casting him against the wall behind him. Cursing richly in his native Glaswegian brogue, Dalgliesh slammed home a fresh box magazine and fired again, raking his fire lower this time. One of the intruders dropped as his legs were cut out from beneath him, a final burst catching him in the abdomen. Another energy blast caught Private Williams in the head, liquefying flesh and the bone beneath, grey gristle spilling from the grisly wound.

Trentford vaulted the desk and dove behind a stack of crates, poking the bullpup's muzzle through a small gap and opening fire. A volley of blasts caught one of Stockbridge's troopers in the midsection, sending him sprawling with a small fire burning in his gut. This was, without a doubt, the worst tactical situation Trentford could imagine. The enemy's armour was tough – not completely bulletproof, but it was hard-going finding a weak spot – his men were short of cover and to make matters even worse, the enemy had hostages.

The enemy troops switched their focus to McAllen's – to his – squad. Making the best use possible of the doorframe, the Black Watch troopers poured fire back at the intruders. Energy blasts caught two of them and hurled them out of Trentford's sight, then another punched through the desk Dalgliesh was behind, killing the support-weapon carrier.

Reloading, Trentford came up, aiming at the nearest intruder's abdomen/groin armour. The hostile dropped. He was distantly aware of two more of the hostiles dropping from fire from Stockbridge's squad. Trentford took aim again, drawing a bead on the sod in the gold armour with the frankly disturbing gold eyes who seemed to be in charge. The bullpup assault rifle kicked against his shoulder as he opened up on full auto, and the enemy leader shouted a curse, clutching at the growing crimson patch over his stomach and sagging, his guards immediately supporting him. Another of the intruders stepped between Trentford and his target, taking the last of the clip harmlessly on his breastplate. Swearing fiercely with frustration, Trentford dropped behind his crates again and set about reloading.

There came a swooshing noise that he realised must have been that Stargate thing the scientists were working on down here – he hadn't heard it dialling over the weapons fire. Glowering fiercely, the guy in the gold armour barked another command, sealing his helmet. His guards followed suit and took up the apparently unconscious bodies, and the trio vanished through the wormhole, carrying two unconscious forms with them. The last two intruders, outnumbered and outgunned, retreated slowly, firing steadily as they walked backwards up the ramp. Another of Stockbridge's men fell, howling like a banshee as he took a shot to the lower abdomen. With that, the enemy turned and stepped through the Stargate.

The wormhole flickered once, then twice, then died away.

Trentford slumped against the crates, keying his radio again and shouting in vain for medics. He had eight dead troopers for four of the enemy.

He had tasted combat, and its flavour was bitter with death.

* * *


	3. The Mission

"_**Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you.**_

_**This will diminish his enthusiasm."**_

—**a Chinese proverb**

**Chapter Three: The Gateway Opens**

**Part Three of Nine**

**The Mission**

**Saturday 10th July 1993**

**2147 hours**

Things began to happen rather quickly in the attack's aftermath.

The first person Hayes contacted was the Minister of Defence, at that time Sir Samuel Dorrance. It was Sir Samuel's unenviable task to pass the information on upwards to the Prime Minister, who had like his predecessors been kept oblivious to the existence of the Project for deniability's sake, along with various other operations, such as the existence of J Squadron. It was decided by Sir Samuel, in consultation with Major Gerald Harcourt, the OC of J Squadron, that the PM should remain in the dark with regards to the squadron. Things had just been taken almost completely out of Hayes' hands.

After contacting Sir Samuel, Hayes telephoned Admin, issuing an immediate recall order. Right now he needed every asset that he could get ready for action.

* * *

Ross groaned, heaving himself, dripping, from his bath at the pager's insistent bleeping. It was the first good soak he'd had in months, and he'd only just gotten in. _Great_ timing.

* * *

Ash groaned, slapped at his pager to shut it off, and hastily downed the rest of his pint, shoving a couple of notes across the bar as he grabbed for his jacket before hurrying out of the pub. 

He had work to do.

* * *

Cursing under his breath, Scudder ground the accelerator of his Renault into the floor, belting hell-for-leather down the M1. It was late, it was nighttime, and he was clocking over a hundred miles an hour when he wasn't tailgating bloody coaches. The Old Bill might clock him and pursue, which would be fun. And if they pulled him over he would make no attempt to ruin their night. He'd take the ticket and the bollocking with it and look contrite. And when he got to Benson he'd hand the ticket over to Admin, who would glare at him for sure. But they'd also pay it. 

He'd just been having the best weekend he'd had since getting stuck on the Project. And just as he and Katie had put their daughters to sleep, the bloody pager'd gone off and woken them up again. When it came to anything disturbing, making things awkward for or just plain upsetting his family, Scudder got extremely _intense_.

He was not having a good night.

* * *

Jimmy Conley and Sid Vicious were also none too appreciative of having their evening disturbed. Shortly after being assigned to the Project, they'd discovered they had plenty in common; they liked gadgets, could natter for hours about the same classical literature – Sid was particularly keen on Jane Austen while Conley was a Marlowe man – were heavily into punk rock'n'roll and the Sex Pistols in particular, and best of all they found that when they hit the discos together teamwork made it easier for them to get dates. 

Currently, they were in identically rather embarrassing situations. Each trooper was in a hotel room with his date, pager bleeping insistently, struggling to get his trousers back on and come up with an acceptable explanation for his lady-friend of the evening as to why he was leaving.

Double dating could be hell sometimes.

* * *

Nev was also experiencing a clash between duty and _affaires de la coeurs_. He'd taken his girlfriend of the past six months, a nurse by profession, out to dinner in Kensington, a particularly fancy restaurant that was eating deeply into his wallet. But Chrissy was worth it, and unless he was mistaken there was a faint chance that their relationship could become permanent. Much as he loved the Regiment and the atmosphere there, if his relationship got serious and Chrissy asked him to go down Civvie Street, he'd do it. Besides, with his skills, he could probably get the training to gain a doctorate. 

And then his pager had gone off halfway through dessert. This job could be such a pain.

* * *

Gareth groaned as the woodpecker flew off, spooked by the bloody pager. That was just typical. Grabbing up his binos and bird book from where they lay on the grass beside him, he clambered to his feet and sprinted off towards where he'd left his car.

* * *

Froggy had been indulging in his top two favourite pastimes simultaneously: movies, and snogging like mad, curled up in the back of a cinema with a pair of absolutely gorgeous shop girls. 

The moment had been completely ruined when his pager had gone off. Glares had been sent his way by the rest of the audience, even more when word whispered around what was going on back there. Cursing under his breath, he made his way out, trampling a few feet in his haste to leave. "Adieu, my cheris," he stage-whispered from the exit to his two pouting girlfriends.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, the PM had summoned Sir Samuel, the current Director of Special Forces Brigadier Jonathan Wright, the Director General of MI-5 Sir Nigel Dupayne, Sir Charles Hemmings from the Home Office, which politically commands MI-5, Colonel Reginald 'Reggie' Tooks, who was beginning his final year as commanding officer of the SAS, to Number Ten Downing Street. 

The meeting was, despite its location, kept reasonably low-key with the relatively small number of those in attendance. Reggie Tooks' absence from Hereford would not be remarked upon by the Regiment as he had been scheduled to meet with Sir Samuel the previous day and stay that weekend in London, the only member of the assembly whose travel plans might be noticed by others.

It was a meeting that took place entirely behind closed doors, a meeting that would decide the future of the Project. Indeed, as things turned out, it may well have been the most important meeting held by members of the British government.

* * *

Sir Nigel was contemplative as his Rolls pulled out of Downing Street six hours later. Well, that was one mystery cleared up: he'd personally searched for the best part of five months, to no avail, to find what Nicholas Tyrell and James Tewson had gotten involved in. 'C' Branch was the wing of MI-5 that concerned itself with the security of the Civil Service (its staffers and its buildings), the security of Contractors (mainly those civilian firms handling defence and communications work), Military Security (in close liaison with the Armed Forces' own internal security staffs) and Sabotage (in reality or prospect). Three years ago, the Head of C.1 (A) – C.1 being Civil Service Personnel and Buildings, 'A' Section meaning within the capital – had come to Sir Nigel, reporting that two of his best operatives had been all but press-ganged by some jumped-up little Army captain for 'something classified'. It would seem Tyrell and Tewson had been making themselves useful, then. 

He found it truly disturbing how all this had been kept hidden for so long. What was worse was the implication that all this time, personnel had been being roped in on the sly for so many years. There was simply no telling how many people had come into contact with the Project over the years – no, he corrected himself, _decades_.

The United Kingdom had access to a…'matter transportation device' as Sir Samuel had described it. A device that clearly led to other sentient life in the universe. _Hostile_ sentient life at that.

The PM had declared…well, a lot of things really. But what most affected Five was that the Project was to be given the full support of any and all of the public services. But beyond leaving Tyrell and Tewson where they were, what more could Five do?

If this Project was set to become a permanent operation, then MI-5 would find a part to play. That much was certain.

* * *

Reggie Tooks, now driving back to Hereford, was muttering a steady stream of curses under his breath which he'd picked up from his parent regiment, the Ghurkhas. It seemed, Tooks thought angrily, he had had seven troopers snatched from under his very nose without him even hearing about it. He recognised the names; Ashcroft, Conley, Berensen and Hardcastle were off temporarily attached to UNIT, weren't they? Surely the UN wasn't so lax as to allow some of the most skilled personnel under its command get seconded without raising a stink over the matter. And Hodges, Longley and Kay were supposed to be part of the current CRW force; he'd have to have a word with MacLoughlin, B Squadron's current commander. Tooks was quietly appalled; he would have never thought the burly Scots major would be so lax as to ignore the loss of one of his best corporals. Mind you, it now seemed there were a lot more secrets in the Regiment than he'd ever guessed; and he'd always thought Cameron was a cunning old bastard… 

Ross he knew only too well. The Marine had gone through Selection, made troop commander and immediately been snapped up by UNIT, the flash sod. Tooks had to concede though, Ross had later capably commanded A Squadron for two years and personally led them on operations in Columbia for nine months solid. Ross had then managed to stick around as the Special Forces liaison officer in Washington. Until today, Tooks had thought he was still over in the States.

How many more men had been seconded from the Regiment over the years? How many more had gone temporarily missing without anyone noticing, waiting to undertake a mission that had never gone ahead? Well, the mob at RAF Benson weren't going to meet _that_ particular fate, oooh no.

When he got back, there were going to be a lot of very searching questions asked around Hereford. And where he was supposed to come up with these additional troopers and support personnel was anyone's guess…

* * *

Brigadier Wright was positively fuming. There may have been an element of propriety towards the SAS to Wright's displeasure, but unlike with Tooks this displeasure was partly born from embarrassment. It was part of his position, his duty, his damn _right_ to know just who was where and what was going on with Britain's elite military units. And yet an SAS officer and seven troopers had been sneaked off to a project no one had seen fit to inform him of the existence of and been there for four months now. He was, Wright was sure, a laughing stock. Well. There was nothing he could do now. Hopefully, Tooks would sort out this deception and trickery in his regiment and get to the bottom of all this. 

It was true that Wright was curious about the Project and the benefits that might be reaped. But he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of betrayal. Tooks had said something about some of these troopers being officially seconded to UNIT; what was happening on that front? Did the UN know of the Project, or had they been hoodwinked as well? Secretly, Wright dearly hoped it was the latter. It's bad enough finding out that you've been deceived in your own office, so to speak, but worse to find that potential rivals were not.

The fact of the matter was that his position had very little real authority. The role of Director Special Forces was more than anything a convenience. The Army was still a hierarchy, even to the indulged personnel of the Special Forces units. The chain of command required that an officer of staff rank pass the units' requests up to GHQ. That same chain demanded that any orders flowing in the opposite direction also carried the imprimatur of a Brigadier. Numerically, the fact that the Special Forces Group comprised the 22nd SAS, the Territorial Army units 21st and 23rd SAS, the Special Boat Service, 264 Signals Squadron and the TA unit 63 SAS Signals Squadron, excused the truncated nature of the command. Wright suspected that there was very little reason for his being informed beyond the fact that he and his successors of his current post might be required to handle equipment requests from the personnel assigned to the SGP.

This was not, in short, a situation he particularly liked very much.

* * *

Hayes had been waiting at his desk for hours, leaving only to get a coffee from the drinks machine that had somehow wound up at the other end of the corridor. No one could remember who had left it there, or where it was meant to be, but as long as someone kept filling it up and removing the money, nobody was about to complain. 

The phone rang. The receiver was in his hand before it could begin its second ring. "Hayes," he curtly said. "Ah…Sir Samuel…excellent. Yes Minister, I'll pass the good news along. Yes, they'll hate us all right. Quite a challenge. Well, I'll see what we can do. Right. Thanks."

Hayes grinned predatorily as the Minister of Defence rang off. He had a briefing to prepare.

* * *

J Squadron was a true irregularity even among a unit as unconventional as the SAS. For a start, the 22nd SAS Regiment had its traditional home at Stirling Lines in Hereford, where the borders of Wales and England met. J Squadron had its own separate headquarters in Hampshire, on the southern coast, in an old factory that had once produced rubber Wellington boots. For another, it was rarely known about outside of the men who had served with it in one capacity or another at some point during their careers. Indeed, should an officer become Director of Special Forces who had not served with the squadron, he would not be notified of its existence. Operational security was tight indeed. 

Hampshire was a long way from being the sleepy, quiet countryside bedecked with little villages a lot of foreign tourists believed a lot of the United Kingdom to be. True, there was the New Forest. But with the cities of Southampton and Portsmouth at the heart of Hampshire's western coastline, the county was definitely a hotbed of activity and commerce. Banks and insurance companies had settled the region in considerable numbers. After London, the south coast was _the_ prime location for big business.

What you would not find in any of the hordes of tourist's guides, handbooks, maps, leaflets and holiday advertisements is that there was another important feature of Hampshire, and the city of Southampton in particular. It had a Hellmouth.

It was currently dormant. It had been dormant for several millennia before humans had first come the lands currently known as the European continent, and would most likely remain so for thousands of years to come. But every once in a while, someone who was either an idiot, a megalomaniac or possibly both, would find something that required a Hellmouth of some sort to be involved somewhere in the process for whatever reason.

Being technically dormant, the Southampton Hellmouth was much more difficult to open than the active Hellmouths. There was very little risk of anyone ever finding or developing a way of opening it and letting the hell dimensions spill forth into the mortal realm in one colossal destructive wave, so most of the time the only risk was to the unfortunates chosen for the blood sacrifices and, if a crucial glyph in the ritual circle was drawn incorrectly, anyone who happened to be walking past the building when it exploded. Fortunately this last had only happened once and been attributed to arson at the time. Even more fortunately, the passersby in question on that occasion had been a pair of lawyers who'd been blind drunk at the time after a long night celebrating the closure of a difficult case and got lost on their way home. They'd been barely capable of seeing the pavement beneath their feet clearly at the time, never mind the pieces of severed tentacles and glass that had gone flying past over their heads as the house's windows blew out. Aside from the shock, which had been slightly diffused by the alcohol flooding their systems, both women had been physically unhurt, although one had never been able to contemplate eating squid again for reasons she could never quite identify.

As a result of such goings-on, J Squadron was based north of Southampton, about twenty miles as the crow flies from RAF Odiham, home of the bulk of Britain's fleet of Chinook helicopters.

The squadron had a long and deep history. In 1965 during the Borneo War, a four-man fighting patrol from D Squadron had come across the mutilated remains of some conscripts from the communist Indonesian army. The patrol's scout, a former Ghurkha, had successfully tracked a strange, hideous, salivating, decidedly hostile and definitely non-human creature. Upon finding it in its lair three miles from the dead conscripts, the patrol had taken up positions and opened fire when it shuffled out to hunt that evening, setting off the Claymore mines they'd rigged up at the entrance as the troopers threw white phosphorous grenades and raked it with heavy machinegun fire from the patrol's GPMG, or general purpose machinegun. It had died, messily.

The patrol had been led by an officer, one Captain Roger Astbury. Consultation with a couple of other officers and NCOs in the Regiment, coupled with a chance meeting in a pub with a French lieutenant assigned to UNIT, had resulted in a group of SAS personnel, spread over all ranks, aware that the supernatural was only too real.

It had been good fortune then, that upon the success of the Borneo War in 1966 and the Regiment's triumphant return to Hereford that Astbury and certain other SAS personnel – officers, NCOs and troopers – were temporarily assigned to UNIT. A meeting had been arranged with the commanding officer of the UNIT forces operating within the United Kingdom, and an arrangement reached. A group of SAS troopers would work with the task force, then go on to establish a new sabre squadron, still ostensibly serving with UNIT. UNIT gained a steady flow of experienced jungle fighters for six years running, who were able to pass on knowledge and skills to the other personnel. The troopers established the new squadron, some fifty-odd troopers, three officers and various support personnel. It was regarded as an excellent trade, and had led to a relationship between the squadron and UNIT that had lasted well over the years. Rather curiously, Keats chosen not to divulge the squadron's existence to the Watchers' Council.

Major Harcourt was not having a good day, to say the least. He'd just received telephone calls from Hayes and Sir Samuel, both telling him he'd have to hold a meeting he'd been quietly hoping that he'd never have to attend ever since becoming J Squadron OC. He was, it seemed, to do something unprecedented; brief the Regiment's commanding officer on the squadron's existence. A CO who had not previously served with the squadron. Worse, a CO renowned for giving people the good news in a spectacular display of vitriol when they had failed him in some way.

He'd met Tooks before, and come away thinking rather well of him. Harcourt wasn't much of a traditionalist, but still there was something that made him a little uncomfortable about divulging the information to Tooks, despite the fact that, technically speaking, the man was his commanding officer.

The winds of change were blowing, and he was but one of many caught up in it.

* * *

It may have been just gone three o'clock in the morning, but the patrol had watched the footage from the security cameras of the attack non-stop. It didn't take a genius to guess the options that were being considered, and each man's feelings were mixed on the matter. The chance to actually do something useful instead of simply training and rehashing their existing skills was extremely appealing. But none of them was ever gung-ho about the prospects of combat, and the knowledge of the eight Black Watch men and three REMEs in the base's morgue served to show just how formidable a foe they'd have to go up against if a mission was authorised. It didn't matter that not one of the SAS troopers had ever met them beyond occasionally seeing them in the base's corridors or in passing at the surface entrance; they were fellow squaddies, and that counted for plenty. 

The Pit, as it had been nicknamed by some unknown squaddie during the Fifties, had its briefing room located directly above the control room, with a window overlooking the Stargate in its hangar. The sight of the troopers took the scientists by surprise, but the former weren't especially bothered by the reaction. They just sat there at the far end of the conference table, talking among themselves.

Ash nodded in a vague greeting to the American astrophysicist, Sam Carter, as she entered. She herself hadn't exactly been burned into his memory: he mainly remembered her simply because escorting her to Benson had occurred on the same day he'd found out about what was without a doubt Britain's darkest and craziest secret. Unfortunately, Scudder noticed the gesture, and nudged him conspiratorially.

"Got yer feet oonder the t'ble 'en 'ave ya?" he muttered, flashing the sergeant a wink and a grin.

Ash rolled his eyes. "I delivered her on the day I got drafted into this shithole, is all."

Scudder sighed theatrically. "An' 'ere was me hopin' te be yer best man at th' weddin'," he lamented. "Ah, well, soomhoo ah'll soljer on."

"I've no doubt," Ash returned good-naturedly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention," Hayes called as the last couple of stragglers put in an appearance.

"For the benefit of those of you unaware, at twenty-two thirty-six hours yesterday nine individuals accessed this base via the Stargate, took two hostages – Doctor Marie Horrocks, one of our archaeologists, and Private Timothy Grant of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers – shot up the Gate's hangar and the control room, killing three more engineers in the process, and then engaged a platoon of the Black Watch. In the ensuing battle, the Black Watch sustained eight fatalities for the loss of four of the intruders and the injury of one who seems to have been the group's leader before the surviving intruders escaped through the Stargate. We have good reason to believe these intruders were of extraterrestrial origin.

"The Prime Minister has been briefed on the Project and the details of the attack by the Minister of Defence." The SAS patrol, Ross included, exchanged glances at this. An operation like this was not something they'd expected to be kept classified from the PM, and this little revelation smacked of a power struggle. "Early this morning, the PM gave the following orders with regards to this project, to be implemented at the earliest possible time.

"One: we are to undertake manned operations through the Stargate with a view to attempt to recover the captured personnel.

"Two: the MOD has been ordered to form a detachment for the purposes of undertaking missions using the Stargate. Their duties will be to perform reconnaissance, determine threats, if at all possible to make peaceful contact with the peoples of other worlds and if not to undertake combat operations in the interests of the security of the United Kingdom – and to be honest with you, the world." Hayes paused and grinned tightly; the SAS troopers in particular were completely unimpressed with the melodramatic touch.

"This detachment will operate on a covert and top-secret basis. No one will know of its existence except the PM, the Minister of Defence, Director of Special Forces and the commanding officer of the Twenty-Second SAS Regiment, which will be providing the personnel for the detachment." This gained a lot of interest from the troopers; living in the pits of hell isn't so bad if you have good company.

Hayes looked specifically at the civilian consultants. "We've come a long way with this project, ladies and gentlemen. For that I thank you, and with the Project's continuation I should like to request your services once again." A variety of nods and other responses in the affirmative rippled around the table.

"Then I should like to introduce the team we have on hand for the purposes of our first mission." _Assuming we can actually proceed with it_. Ash frowned and exchanged glances with Scudder and Ross, confirming they'd picked up on Hayes' unspoken sentiments as well. "The gentlemen at the far end are Major Ross and his men from the SAS." Ash's opinion of Hayes went down immediately. Being in the Regiment was not something you bandied about casually. Troopers tended only to talk about their work among themselves, and were only legally permitted to reveal the identity of their regiment to extremely close relatives and long-term spouses. Granted, every civilian specialist in the room had had an extensive background check done to ensure they posed no security risks to the Project, but this was something else entirely.

"Now, what's our situation?" Hayes continued, ignoring a black look from Scudder. "Doctor Wilson?"

Major Laura Wilson, The Pit's CMO, was a tall Yorkshirewoman in her mid thirties and almost as strong as Scudder, a fact belied by her slight appearance. One of the first things anyone being ministered to by her found out was that she didn't take any lip or nonsense from anyone, without distinction of class, rank or background, and the second was that while her ministrations may cause discomfort, they also caused a swift recovery. About the only trooper she had any liking for was Nev, for reasons that were a mystery even to him. "I've been examining the corpses of the intruders," she began, opening the file before her on the table and handing around a few blown-up photographs. "They're essentially human but with a few differences as you can see. These slits are actually a pouch similar to that found in a marsupial."

Nev frowned at one of the photos that had reached him. "Any ideas what this snake…worm…_thing_ is meant to be?" he asked.

"I haven't had time to do an autopsy on those yet. There's an unknown element that showed up in their bloodwork – I haven't managed to identify it yet."

Hayes nodded, satisfied with this news. No especially unpleasant surprises. "Thank you, doctor." He shot a brief glance at the SAS medic, eyes narrowed, before looking away again. "Doctor Gladstone, Doctor Carter, how's that dialling program coming along? We're going to need to track down the world these…aliens…people, whatever they are."

"Actually, general, we can follow them already," Sam jumped in before Carol could say anything.

Hayes frowned. "What do you mean, doctor?"

"Well, the security cameras and the video equipment Doctor Chessel had rigged up caught the symbols used on tape – we know the co-ordinates the…aliens…dialled when they left, and the symbols they used to get here. If they came here from the same place they went to, then we can get there as well _and_ return again."

Ross had been growing steadily more and more disenchanted with the turn events were taking, and couldn't contain himself any longer. "Let me get this straight," he said, fighting to keep himself from verbally broadsiding the general. "You want my men and I to undertake a rescue operation on another planet billions of light-years away that we don't know even the most basic information about. We'll be going up against an enemy using advanced directed-energy weapons and possessing a superior knowledge of the local terrain, whose forces we know nothing whatsoever about in terms of size, composition, capability, equipment and disposition, not to mention we don't even know all that much for certain about their biology. And the device we have to use to get there was been buried in Egypt for four millennia, then in this base and various warehouses for another sixty-odd years, and we may or may not be able to successfully return to the correct planet – this one – provided that there is in fact a similar device on the other end. Am I missing something, or is that an accurate assessment of the proposed mission profile?"

The troopers, Hayes could see, were responding to this; it would seem they agreed with the assessment. Hayes shook his head. "Major, what _I'm_ proposing is a reconnaissance mission only at this stage. Of course, should the opportunity arise to recover our personnel, I would hope that you and your men would take it."

"Oh, that's much better," Ash growled. "It's still likely we'll get killed inside five secs of stepping into that thing."

"Actually—" Carter spoke up.

"Can you honestly guarantee we _won't_, doc?" Gareth interrupted. "No offence, but we've had one probe and a bunch of aliens go through the bloody thing. Personally, I really hate the idea of being used like a guinea pig."

"Anyway, what if there's a problem with that pedestal – you know, the control device?" asked Froggy.

"We can use another robotic probe to ascertain if it's safe to pursue the aliens," Carol put in. "That would also confirm the presence of a control device and Stargate on the other end of the wormhole."

"'Coorse, th' prob wi' that's if the opposition's got guards oan their Gate, they'll know we're comin', wun't they?" Scudder offered his opinion. "So there goes the element a' surprise."

"So we send the probe through and if it all checks out we send you guys through straightaway?" Carol suggested. Eight pairs of eyes regarded her as if she'd suggested they perform a specific sexual act with a chicken.

"Are you deliberately tryin' to get us killed or something?" Ash asked in a withering tone of voice. "You need the right kit and clothing depending on the terrain, and that'll take a while to get sorted out and for us to get loaded up properly. If we go off half-cocked, the ones that don't get shot'll die of heatstroke or hypothermia or something. Is that what you want?"

The computer specialist shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. Suddenly, it wasn't hypothetical anymore. The Gate worked; that wasn't the problem any longer. The problem was that people had died. And if the planning was messed up, these soldiers could die, entirely needlessly. "Sorry," Carol mumbled.

Scudder sighed. "'S not your fault, pet," he allowed. "No one ever trained ye in battle strategy, m'I right? Right. Nae harm done."

"If there's guards on the Gate at the other end, we can scrub the plan right away," said Nev. "That armour's something we don't want to have to go up against unless we're the ones calling the shots about terrain, timing and positions, not them. If they've got bunkers or any kind of prepared defensive positions, just forget it."

"Howsabout we chuck a few grenades through first, or hose 'em down with a coupl'a gimpies?" Sid Vicious offered.

"Don't be daft, man," said Scudder. "Ye're limited in yer field o' fire, the grenades wun't go far 'nough, 'n' if there's someone beyind the Gate, ye're stuffed then, in't ya? Can't do nowt then, can we?"

Sid Vicious shrugged. "Fair 'nough."

"If we're serious about doing this, I reckon we should take a look at the weaponry of the aliens the Black Watch downed," Jimmy mused. "It'd be handy if we could use them in a pinch."

Hayes nodded. "I'll arrange for you to have access to them," said he.

Ross glanced at his team. "Are we seriously considering doing this then?" he asked.

A few shrugs met this line of inquiry. "If we can sort out the probe situation, it might be doable," Gareth finally ventured.

"Anyone got objections to doing this?" Ross asked. There were no takers. "Okay, let's get on with this properly, then."

"Step one: we've sent the probe through," Ash began. "It reports back the air's okay, the gravity checks out, the control pedestal's there, there's a Gate, and there's no hostiles in the area. What then?"

"We can't go straight through – we're gonna have ta get kitted up proper-like first," Scudder offered his opinion.

"How long would you need to get sorted out – would four, maybe five hours do?" Carol asked.

The patrol exchanged looks, and eventually Ash nodded. "That ought to be enough."

"So," Carol grinned victoriously, "we send the probe in, get the data on the target Stargate and its surrounding area and then let the wormhole shut down. You lot get your kit sorted out, and when you're ready to go through we power up the Gate, dial the target, and download everything the probe recorded and review it. If it doesn't look as though there's been any activity, we send you through."

"Do all of us go through though, or do just one or two go to check if we can get back home?" Jimmy asked.

"If you do that and we haven't got the right symbols, we've then got one or two guys on the wrong planet with no good way of getting back home and hostiles around – that ain't good news by anyone's standards," Sid Vicious said. "If we all go, then if the dial code doesn't work we might, just _might_ be able to find the right one – we can search further with eight of us on the job, maybe get it out of the opposition somehow."

"Damn sight easier for eight lads to build a wooden horse than two," Froggy grinned. "Worked on the Trojans after all."

"Ah don't think these lads'll fall fer a wooden 'oss somehow," said Scudder. "All right. We go through the Gate. First off, we get a perimeter set up, then try diallin' the symbols them aliens used. What if the pedestal don't work? Boss, Gareth, Sid, could any of ye figure out hoo ta get the bleeder workin' agin?" Having trained in signals and electronics for their primary patrol skills, these troopers were therefore the closest the patrol had to scientific experts.

The troopers and major exchanged glances. "If the scientists here had problems with sorting our one out, there's no way we'll manage it, with less resources, less knowledge and in enemy territory," Ross said finally.

"So if the pedestal doesn't work, we're completely stuffed," said Jimmy, neatly summing things up.

"Uh…I've been looking at our pedestal from time to time while we were compiling the dialling algorithms, and if I took a laptop and the right equipment I _might_ be able to repair any damage and get it operational."

Simultaneously, the patrol members turned and stared at Sam Carter.

Scudder was the first to break the silence. "Could ye run that past us one moor time, pet'l?" he asked gently.

Sam bit her lip nervously. "If I went with you, then if there was a problem with the pedestal I might be able to repair it. And if you encountered any – well, alien technology – I might be of some use to you there as well."

"No offence, Doc, but do you have _any_ military or survival training?" Ash asked. "If you climb mountains or go hiking for a hobby then in time we might be able to get you trained up to a point where you'd be able to work with us, but we can't afford to get slowed down."

Sam shrugged. "My dad was in the Air Force, so I picked some stuff up. I'm a pretty good shot with a sidearm, and I went on a camping trip this one time with some friends for a couple of weeks – I can rough it."

Jimmy winced. "Let me guess: you and your mates slept in tents, lit fires, swapped stories, maybe smoked some fags?" Sam shrugged: aside from the smoking, he was accurate so far. But she didn't understand: what was wrong about having a fire and using tents? "And roughly how much were each of you lugging around?"

"Around thirty, thirty-five pounds of supplies and equipment," Sam admitted.

"Usual load for us is about eighty, ninety pounds, maximum of around a hundred twenty, hundred thirty tops," Froggy said. "But some guys've been known to carry even more on 'em."

"_If_ you were to accompany Major Ross and his patrol," Hayes put in, interrupting the interrogation, "how confident are you that you would be of use with regards to operating the Stargate and possibly other technology, Doctor?"

"Quite confident," Sam admitted.

"How long before we begin the op?" Ash asked.

Hayes looked at the sergeant critically. "As soon as possible. I can give you perhaps three days; no more."

"Ash?" Ross asked. "What do you reckon?"

Ash rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Doc? You still interested in doing this?"

This was too good an opportunity to pass up. "Sure," Sam replied.

The sergeant shrugged. "Do you fancy putting her through the wringer, Boss, or do you want me to do the job?"

"She's all yours, Ash," said Ross.

"'Kay. I've got one condition though," Ash said, looking pointedly at Sam. "We'll have a go and I'll do what I can for you – but if I feel at any point you won't be able to keep up and will be a liability, Doc, I'm reserving the right to scrub you, alright?"

Sam nodded.

Ash turned to the major. "I'll see what we can do then, Boss."

"We'll need to carry on with the training – I'd like to get to the Brecon Beacons for the final prep," Ross addressed the general.

Hayes nodded. "Agreed."

"Obviously we can't discuss how we'll be doing the actual recce until we know something about the terrain. Is there anything else?" Ross asked the patrol. Various shrugs and comments of a negative persuasion were made. "Guess that's it then. Lads, Doctor Carter – we have a meet-up at seven thirty, 'kay? Get your sleep, guys, 'cause you're going to need it."

* * *


	4. First Steps

"_**Just tell Anna I love her. That's all."**_

—**accredited to Bradley Tinnion, 10th September 2000**

**Chapter Four: The Gateway Opens**

**Part Four of Nine**

**First Steps**

**Sunday 11th July 1993**

"Oi! Doc!"

Sam turned as she left the briefing room to see Ash advancing towards her.

"Where do think you're off to?" the sergeant asked.

"Well I was going to get some more sleep in before the meeting—" she began.

"How much have you already had tonight?"

"Uh, Laura – Doctor Wilson – gave me something after the attack…about seven hours maybe?"

"Sounds like you've had enough," Ash said dismissively. "Out in the field you'll be lucky to get five or six out of twenty-four. You know," he grinned, ignoring Sam's slightly horrified expression, "back in the Malayan Conflict during the Fifties, one patrol stayed out in the jungle for about seven, eight months solid. We'll only be two or three days, eight tops. Come on. We've got a lot to cover."

"You mean right now?" Sam asked.

"Hell yeah! You're serious about coming, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Then come on."

"Don't you need more sleep?"

Ash snorted. "I had all I need during the day, yesterday. I try and stay awake at night."

* * *

The quartermaster's storeroom was the first place they raided. Not only had the eight SAS troopers been seconded to the SGP, but a group of personnel who had served as support staff at Stirling Lines had been drafted in as well to care for the patrol's more irregular kit, clothing, vehicles and weaponry. The sergeant running the storeroom, a burly bald fellow by the name of Martin – Sam never quite caught whether it was his first name or surname – had hardly batted an eyelid when Ash asked for her to be measured up for an SAS smock and kit. And, when she made the mistake of asking what the difference between an SAS smock and an ordinary British Army smock was, he turned out to be a true historian on the subject matter.

"These things originate back to 1942," Martin said, comparing the serial numbers on a shelf of crates to those on his clipboard. "The Army started issuing these green, brown and pink – for desert warfare, don't ask me how they work – Denison smocks to any soldier who needed a windproof camouflage jacket. These nutters," he grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Ash, who rolled his eyes, "used 'em in south-west Europe, Italy and the Balkans. No sooner has Japan packed it in though, than the Army decides to adopt these drab green olive uniforms. But oh, no, the SAS stuck with the wartime Denison camo jacket until the Sixties when the Army started using disruptive pattern material – here, have a look at this, this is DPM." So saying, the supply sergeant opened a crate to reveal such a uniform. "They used these in the design of the new SAS smock. That's one of these." Another crate was opened; another jacket revealed. "This one ought to fit you; slip it on, tell me what you reckon."

Sam shrugged the jacket on over her usual casual attire. It settled comfortably on her shoulders in a fit that was loose but not baggily so, and the sleeves fitted perfectly. "Yeah, that's really good."

Martin beamed. "At last, someone who appreciates a good fitting. These philistines wouldn't know good tailoring if it fell out of a tree on 'em," he said, smirking in Ash's direction. "You've got your hood here, your pockets are designed to be nice and roomy for ammo, medical gear, grenades and all sorts of odds and sods, and have a look in here—" Martin opened the jacket, holding one panel out for inspection. "—we got the idea for these from poachers of times past – they'd sew a nice big inner pocket in their coats, see? Now," Martin turned to Ash, "what's next on your shopping list for the lady 'ere?"

"You got any pairs of Gore-Tex trousers in that might fit?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. Boots?"

"Should be suitable for the Brecon Beacons – we'll be going on exercises there, it'll probably be pissing it down knowing our luck. If Sam needs dessies or jungle kit we'll get back to you. Socks – usual mix, three sets of each. The trick is," Ash muttered as an aside to Sam, "you wear a thin inner pair under a thick woollen outer pair – stops the friction rub if your boots are a good fit. Cuts the blisters right down. Add in a belt-kit," Ash returned to Martin and raised his voice to normal levels, "DPM undershirt, pullover, bandana and woollen skullcap should round out the wardrobe. She'll have a set of passive-night-goggles and a PRR set as well if there's any left."

"Considering all the spares you lot brought in, I'd be surprised if I didn't have enough," Martin grinned, already rummaging.

"PRR?" Sam asked.

"Personal Role Radio." Martin had returned. "Also, I managed to find a couple of these for you, don't ask where from – don't want to get in trouble with Doc Wilson," he winked at Sam, dumping a couple of camo-green elastene sports bras on top of the pile. "I'll chuck in a scrim scarf and some thermal underwear as well shall I?" Martin asked of Ash.

"And a pack of cam cream if you've got any going spare."

"Coming right up." Martin headed off into the aisles again.

"Uh, what about body armour?" Sam asked.

Ash shrugged. "What's the point? You saw the tape, it didn't do the Black Watch boys any good. Nah, that stuff's just extra weight to slow you down on this job. Don't bother."

Equipment swiftly followed the clothing. Sam was supplied with a PARA Bergen, which consisted of a metal frame and a detachable heavy-duty fabric bag. The bag looked incredibly small when rolled up but as Martin produced more and more kit it grew to simply enormous proportions. By the time he was finished, the bergen contained a sleeping bag, which for reasons neither sergeant explained was known as a 'Gonk bag'; a bivi-bag, or waterproof one-man sheet to be used as a temporary shelter; a portable hexamine stove and blocks of hexamine fuel; a waterproof Allison bag for carrying her laptop in; a brew kit, including sachets of tea, powdered milk and sugar; and a few signal flares; a couple of aluminium water bottles; teabags, packet soup, tins of bacon grill, corned beef, hardtack biscuits and various other foodstuffs. A field watch was passed over, and Sam reluctantly strapped it onto her wrist in the place of the watch her mother had left her, which she stuffed in a pocket of her trousers for the time being.

Another sack was mounted atop the bergen, which Ash told her was called a grab-bag, or otherwise known as a day sack. This was swiftly filled by the two sergeants with another water bottle and two tough robust plastic sacks closed with zips that no one seemed inclined to tell her what their purpose was.

"Usually, we keep our speciality gear in the grab-bags," Ash explained. "Nev will have his medical gear in his – we've all got our own trauma kits in our belt-kits, but his is way more extensive – if we take any radio sets then Sid or Gareth or the Boss'll be carrying them in their grab-bags, Scudder and Jimmy are linguists so they don't have any specialist kit – they'll keep ammunition in their grab-bags, probably get landed with more machinegun ammo than the rest of us – Gaz'll probably have a rifle in bits in his, and Froggy and me will be carrying most of the explosives in ours. If you hear a really loud bang, either him or me's taken a hit in the pack." Ash grinned briefly at his own gallows humour. "If we have to dump the bergens for a quick getaway, we just swipe the grab-bags off the top and we lose some weight and bulk but we can still operate properly. You won't be carrying any of that kind of specialist stuff though. You're best sticking any spare ammo you can carry in there, and a bit of food and water, enough to survive a couple of days. These things are also known as 'day sacks', so if you hear anyone using that term, at least now you won't get too confused."

A belt-kit followed. The basis of this was the belt of a set of webbing. Martin indicated the ammunition pouch, which Ash assured her they'd fill up at the armoury; the ration pouch, which was swiftly filled with a couple of bars of chocolate, some packets of powdered soup and a few teabags; the general-purpose webbing pouches; twin pouches for another pair of water bottles, each of which, Sam noticed upon taking a closer look, had a metal mug fitted to their base; a sheath containing a standard-issue bayonet; and showed her how to strap the belt-kit on.

A trauma kit was laid out, then all the components loaded into one of the belt-kit's general-purpose pouches. This consisted of a magnifying glass to help find splinters and stings in the skin, sticking plasters, bandages, cotton wool, antiseptic, intestinal sedative, painkillers, antibiotics, antihistamine, water-sterilising tablets, anti-malaria tablets, potassium permanganate, analgesic, two surgical blades, a generously large container of dry powder, and butterfly sutures. More equipment was passed from the counter to the pouches of her belt-kit: an aluminium mess tin, mug and utensils; matches in a waterproof container and flint for when the matches ran out; needles and thread; a fishing line and hooks; a pencil torch and batteries and a luminous button compass. With a sly wink, Martin slipped a cigarette lighter into one of her smock's many pockets ("It's high time I gave up smoking properly anyway!"), and few packets each of Tylenol, Brufen, and cough sweets distributed between the grab-bag, her belt-kit and smock pockets ("For fatigue and to keep your mouth moist."). Spare radio batteries were produced, and Sam was advised to stash them in her smock's pockets. The belt-kit fitted snugly, the pouches positioned out of the way so as not to obstruct her movement or snag on anything but easy to grab hold of in a hurry.

"The thing is," Ash explained, "while you can carry enough food and water in your pack to last for a week or more dead easy, you don't want to be lugging it all around with you – you just waste energy that way. So, we usually make a bergen cache and use it as an ERV – emergency rendezvous point – and take just enough supplies in the belt-kits to last a day or two or however long for whatever we're doing. Sometimes we take the grab-bags with us, sometimes we don't – it all depends on what we're up to. If you're lying up in an Observation Post, it's a tough enough job hiding yourself, never mind a Bergen as well. If you're doing a recce, you want to move fast and quiet – you can't do that too easily with all this lot on you. And if you're in combat, part of an attack – all-too possible on this particular job – the same applies, but then you might want explosives and all the ammo and medical gear you can carry, so you'll take your grab-bag with you for the job. You do your business, get back to the Bergen cache, and if you need to and the area's clear you can stock up and go off for another few days. You want to pack as much ammo and water in your belt-kit as possible – anything else you absolutely _have_ to have on you, stick it in your pockets. Food's important, but if you're out of water or ammunition you're already dead."

Sam's water bottles were filled, then it was off back to her room, where she dug out her Compaq laptop and stuffed it in the Allison bag. Tricia was, fortunately, off in a lab reviewing the telemetry from the first probe for the umpteenth time, and therefore wasn't present to see her roommate getting changed.

* * *

"_How the hell did he do that so fast?"_ was Sam's first thought when she emerged to find Ash kitted up and lounging against the wall opposite her door. She'd only been a few minutes, yet the sergeant had changed into his own field gear and loaded up his bergen, grab-bag and belt-kit with his own gear in that time.

Sam hid a grimace of embarrassment; she'd stared for a couple of minutes at her reflection in the mirror, and felt sure she looked ridiculous.

Ash, however, was either not forthcoming with his opinion or just didn't care about such things. The sergeant merely beckoned for Sam to follow and headed off, not bothering to check if she was following. Struggling against the weight, Sam struggled to keep up with him.

"So, ah…what're we doing for the next three days?" she asked, shifting the bergen on her shoulders to try and get it to hang more comfortably.

"Don't bother," Ash said, without even looking in her direction. "The best thing you can do with a bergen is leave it well alone – trust me, when I went through Selection I tried every trick under the sun with masking tape, bandages around my chest, pads on the shoulder straps, they were all bollocks – your bergen's uncomfortable, and there's nothing that can be done about it. Best thing to do is just ignore it. Besides, out in the field you'll have a more than uncomfortable shoulders to worry about."

"Like what?" Sam asked.

"Staying alive," Ash replied offhandedly. "Right now, we're going down the armoury, see if we can find the weaponry that best fits you. Then I'll show you how to carry it, fire it and clean it – look after your kit and it'll look after you. After that, we're going to load up with all the ammunition we can carry, go to the briefing – Ross and those other lazy bastards should've got their arses out of bed by then," Ash grinned at this, "'cause they know if they're late I'll get 'em shifted myself and no one likes a sergeant waking them up, and then we're heading off to Stirling Lines. We'll do three days of training there, then back here for the op itself."

"What are you going to be training me in, though?" Sam persisted.

"You'll have to wait and see," Ash winked. The news was met with a put-out look. "All right, all right – there's no time or point in training you for survival in a specific type of environment 'cause we don't know what we'll end up in, so we won't be doing any of the usual stuff. Just watch what we do closely and copy that. There's no point taking you through the regular training in radio ops either – we probably won't take any long-range kit with us and even if we do, you won't be needed to use 'em, and these sets—" Ash flicked the microphone of his PRR for emphasis, "—are only good for short range, about a couple of hundred yards. I'll show you how to use these, but there's no need for you to be Morse fluent—"

"Actually, I already am," said Sam, feeling a faint twinge of pride.

"How many words per minute?"

"Four or five both sending and receiving, depending on the length." There were advantages in being an Air Force brat sometimes.

"Huh. We tend to aim for a minimum of eight, but even faster's better," Ash mused, destroying Sam's flicker of satisfaction completely without even appearing to notice. "Medical training – I can show you the very bare basics but if you get badly injured, unless you've already got medical experience, you better hope one of us is around to give you a hand. It takes at least a couple of weeks for proper training. Demolitions – that's my speciality by the way – I can show you how to rig a time-pencil, set up charges, use grenades and stuff, but it takes a couple of months to get someone completely fluent in deciding how much explosive to use on something. It ain't like in Hollywood movies, where there's a fucking great bang, lots of smoke and flame and the bridge comes tumbling down. The trick is learning how to use a minimum of explosive to the maximum of effect – how much to use, where to place it, whether you need a delay in some of the charge timers and so on. If you don't need to use much explosive, then it's a big saving on weight. Map reading; useless, we don't have any maps of the target area. I'll run you through basic navigational skills only. General survival skills, patrolling, contact drills, basic weaponry – we can do all of those. Thank fuck I haven't got to get you up to the standards of the regiment though – in three days you won't even be up to the standards of a regular infantry battalion, never mind my lot."

Sam bristled at this; Ash noticed and sighed. "It's nothing personal, Doc, but you need a bare minimum of two years' experience in another branch of the Armed Forces before you can even apply for Selection for the Regiment. If you get through six weeks of tabbing over mountain after bloody mountain and through forests, over rivers and fuck only knows what else with a pack on your back even heavier than what you're carrying now, you've got Continuation training to get through – training on all sorts of weapons, including Eastern Bloc stuff and trust me, you _don't_ want to know where we got the Chinese Kalashnikov knock-offs; contact drills; basic patrolling SOPs; a month of jungle warfare training out in Brunei; then it's back to Wales for a combat survival course.

"After a fortnight of theory, you then spend most of the next week freezing your arse off running around putting it into practice. When I went through that one, there was a rifle company from the Scots Guards Regiment after me and the others – we use the course along with other units, pathfinders, pilots, all the prone-to-capture personnel – and trust me, getting chased through a freezing cold muddy patch of the Welsh countryside in the middle of the night on foot by a load of Scotsmen in vehicles and helicopters ain't my idea of a fun time, 'specially when they've got an incentive of two weeks' leave and pay if they grabbed us. And after _that_, you get experience in resisting interrogations – now that's a long way from being a picnic, I can tell you. If you _like_ being put into stress positions while occasionally subjected to white noise, then getting interrogated, insulted and spending time stark bollock naked during some of that, you'll love that course." Sam blanched, and the sergeant, catching her expression, grinned as he continued.

"Get through that, and you get badged. But even then you're only on probation; you can still get binned. Then you go through Counter-Revolutionary Warfare – urban operations, counter-terrorism, hostage-rescue – followed by freefalling; an unarmed combat course; and lastly you get trained up in at least one patrol skill. And that's only the _basics_ – the training never really stops. Hell, you want to know some of what I was up to last year? I spent fourteen weeks cross-training in signalling and electronics as another patrol skill, and that's a good one to mix with demo. It's nothing to do with you being a woman, Doc, it's because you've done none of that stuff. When I signed up for Selection back in '85, there must have been a few more than a hundred and ten blokes with me – by the time I finished training on demolitions, there was only me and eight other lads still in. _That's_ what you're going to have to keep up with."

Sam looked at Ash incredulously. "You must be insane to have gone through all that."

The sergeant snorted, amused. "Wouldn't have made it if I had been. Just got to focus is all. The thing is, you're going to need some of the bare essentials. Now, at all times you're going to need to be totally honest with us. If someone asks you how you feel and you're feeling a bit knackered, say so. If you think you're getting a blister, _say so_. It's best to get those bastards when they're titchy, 'cause if you leave it until they've got to full size, the only way we can really get rid of 'em is Nev's going to have to sterilise a needle in a flame and then, while some of us hold you down and gag you, jab it in the edge of the blister and squeeze out all the muck inside. Believe me when I tell you, I've done it for meself a couple of times and it was fucking _agony_. The first few times, it was when I was going through Endurance testing so it didn't matter if I screamed the place down, but out on a training exercise or in the field, you need to bite down on a bayonet handle or something."

Sam shuddered at the thought. "It's that bad?"

Ash nodded. "Look after your feet the way I show you, and if you get any problems tell us right away. If you're injured, don't be brave and bear it – tell us how it is, what problems you're having. Otherwise, you're completely stuffed. You're also going to have to be honest with me when we're going through the armoury as well – if a gun's too heavy or a bit awkward for you or if you're not sure you can handle the recoil or whatever, _tell__me_ and we'll look at a different one. Don't go all macho on us, okay? We certainly don't bother with that bone stuff. And don't worry – you ain't going to get ribbed for knowing your limits and asking for something lighter or easier to handle than the rest of us. You haven't gone through training, we have – we're _meant_ to be able to lug our own body weight around at high speed, and unless I'm wrong that's not one of the qualifications of an astrophysicist." This elicited a faint smile. "But you'll sure as hell have the piss taken out of you big time if you go on the mission with a weapon that's too heavy for you, you collapse from exhaustion and we all make it back in one piece anyway. And if you want to know something, absolutely anything, just ask."

"Uh…what does 'bone' mean?" Sam hesitantly asked.

"See?" Ash said approvingly. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Very intelligent question. Means bollocks, shit, completely buggered, naff or upgefucked. If something's bone, it ain't good. And something else to remember: with us, you need to chuck out your dignity and kiss your pride goodbye when you're actually out in the field. Take the bogs, for example. You'd be amazed how many guys get scrubbed during the jungle warfare training just 'cause they get the shakes and refuse flat-out to use a piss and shit bag in front of people."

"Er…what!" Sam stopped in her tracks.

Halting himself, Ash sighed, turning back and noting Sam's horrified look. He'd expected this, but secretly hoped it wouldn't be a problem. This was one of the reasons why the Regiment never took civilian consultants on jobs; it was ridiculous how often people shrank from such a simple issue. "Those plastic zip-sacks in your grab-bag? That's your loo out on the job."

"I thought we'd dig latrines or something…"

Ash snorted at this. "Not bloody likely! You try burying urine or faeces and some animal'll go and dig it up sooner or later, and then the opposition's just got to follow the trail of shit and urine. Nah – you do it in your bags, and bring it back here. One's for pissing in, the other's for defecating – whatever you do, don't mix 'em, these things have a weird habit of exploding if you do. We do it all the time, it's nothing to get shy about."

Sam nodded dubiously, still clearly uncomfortable. "So…I take it we'll, you know…" she mumbled.

"Not at all, you'll have to spell it out."

"…use these…bags…in private?"

"Here's a hypothetical situation," Ash said. "We've gone through the Gate. We make a brief stop. Half of us are on stag – sentry duty – while the other half are sorting themselves out. You need to take a piss so you go off into the bushes or behind a tree out of our line-of-sight – I'm guessing that's what you did when you and your mates were off on your camping trip?" Sam nodded. "Say the opposition's been tracking us. You're alone, you're in no state to run 'cause your daks are down around your ankles, you probably can't use your weapon properly 'cause your hands are busy, your senses aren't as alert and there's no-one to watch your back. Tell me, what's to stop 'em from taking you out?" Ash asked. "Eh? They can kill you or capture you and we'd be absolutely fucked. Hell, me and the rest of the lads'd have a difficult enough time busting through their perimeter if they had one, there's absolutely no way we could get you back unless they were complete amateurs. And if you get killed on this job, we're going to have to dump your body at the first opportunity we get where no-one'll ever find it – we can't go lugging cadavers around, we've got enough weight to carry in water, food and ammo as it is. And chances are we'll never go back for it.

"Now, is your life worth more to you than a bit of dignity? Do you really want to risk getting killed or captured and being stuck on an alien planet because you were too shy to take a piss in front of us?" Ash grinned reassuringly. "Doc, I can guarantee we won't give a toss about seeing you in a state of undress. Out on the job, we'll be more interested in staying alert and alive than ogling beautiful women. Hell, Froggy's the biggest lothario the Regiment's got and he'll be more interested in checking his kit and the surrounding area than looking at you. If we didn't have enough self-control to keep from jumping the closest woman and shagging her, we wouldn't have got through Selection in the first place."

Sam still looked uncomfortable. "Tell you what," Ash suggested quietly, "if you're really not sure about it, what if we were all facing outwards with you in the middle of the formation while you do your business? I'll have a word with the lads if you like."

Sam nodded reluctantly. This was one journey she couldn't miss, and if they needed her along…crap. She'd just have to hope that Ash was on the level. "Yeah, okay," she smiled weakly.

"All right. Now come on," Ash winked, "let's get on with the fun stuff."

* * *

Ash removed a rifle and ammunition from the weapons rack. The rifle looked immediately familiar to Sam, a weapon known throughout much of the world. "This," the sergeant said, casually slamming a magazine into it, "is the XM-16 A2 assault rifle, a.k.a. the M-16. Like you, it's of American origin," he flashed Sam a wink and a grin at this, and she smiled in response. "Like it, you are going to receive some modifications of _British_ origin." So saying, he handed over the rifle and a set of ear defenders, looping another pair around his neck.

Sam hefted the weight uncertainly, examining the weapon closely. Back when she and Mark had been with their dad on various USAF bases, she'd seen plenty of such weapons of this make, but none like this specimen from the SAS armoury. It was painted weird and wonderful camouflage colours, dappled with bits of black, brown and green, and there was a Maglite torch mounted under the muzzle, held on with bits of masking tape on the stock. For the Security Forces soldiers in the Air Force she'd seen whilst growing up, there was just no way they could tamper with their weapons like that. Weapons were seen as sacred; the SFs could clean them, but that was it.

"It's chambered for 5.56 millimetre rounds, same as our very own SA80," Ash explained. "Time was they were complete shit, the five-fifty-six rounds were absolutely feeble – you could put half a mag into someone and they'd still keep on coming at you. Nowadays, we've got a heavier, higher velocity design, which has a nasty tendency to tumble after impact so it does a lot more damage. We've been using these things since before your lot took them to Vietnam. Don't ask me about the muzzle velocity or precise length – if you want all the nitty-gritty details, either look the bloody thing up in _Jane's Arms & Armaments_ or just ask Froggy, he's our resident egghead on that stuff, a walking talking version of the book. We use this thing for 'Green' – outdoor – work, and usually rig it in an 'under-and-over' combination with an M203 grenade launcher for some extra wallop. I won't be testing you on those though, seeing as the idea is to keep your load as light as possible. How's it feel, weight-wise? It's a bit less than nine pounds when fully loaded, so keep that in mind as you're going to need to be carrying this thing hours on end for bloody miles in such a way you can use it in less than two seconds flat if we get bumped. There's no full automatic setting on it, just semi-auto and triple-bursts, so you don't have to worry about fucking up and squirting off all your ammo in one go. It's not too brilliant, and jams sometimes even today, but it's pretty good."

Sam shifted her hands over the weapon, awkwardly grasping the underside of the barrel and the grip. "It's kinda on the heavy side for doing all that," she sheepishly admitted.

Ash shook his head. "Hang about a sec…" The sergeant stepped behind her. Moving his hands over her own, Ash moved Sam's fingers and palms so she was holding the weapon more comfortably. "Keep your hand on the grip like _this_ and put the butt into your shoulder _thus_…there you go. Any better?"

Sam shifted her shoulders, reminding herself she'd have to carry the Bergen and grab-bag as well. "Er…yeah, a bit. I don't know for sure if I could carry it comfortably for too long or not," she admitted, a little embarrassed.

Ash nodded, and clapped her on the shoulder. "Okey-dokey, have a go with this thing for now. It's just better for all of us if we're using the same ammo load-out and kit, and if we get bumped it'd be handy if all of us are firing back at the same range. We'll find out in the field training if you can handle carrying it for long distances. If it doesn't work out, you only take a Nine Milly and leave this thing behind."

"'Nine Milly'?"

"Browning handgun," Ash explained. "It's the calibre. We've been using them since the Regiment was rebuilt back in the Fifties, during the Malayan Conflict. Very reliable." He then proceeded to show Sam how to chamber a round, where the safety/selector switch was, ran her through selecting firing groupings and showed her how to field-strip the weapon, clean its working parts and reassemble it, and how to fit and use the Kite sight – a British-designed and built lightweight weapon-aiming system that was capable of being fitted to most rifles and light anti-tank weapons, which permitted the firer to aim even in total darkness.

"Right," Ash finally grinned, reloading the rifle and handing it back as he slipped on his ear defenders, "show me what you can do. Put it into single shot mode, I want to see you firing, five rounds rapid."

Sam put on her own ear defenders, clicked the selector switch to the correct position and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. _Shit._ She'd forgotten to cock the weapon. She scrabbled to do so, finally chambering a round. She peered through the sights, squeezing the trigger once. The recoil slammed the butt against her shoulder, causing her to look away from the sight and wince in pain as the barrel jerked upwards, her finger jerking reflexively and firing off a second round. That one stayed in the range, but there was no way it had come close to the target. Forcing the muzzle down again, Sam squeezed the trigger again, then again, then finally the fifth time.

Ash tapped a control and the target, a black disc on a white background, trundled down the range towards them. One hit. Sam stared at the single ragged hole, unwilling to look at the sergeant for fear of his reaction. That single hole was on the very edge of the target disc.

"That," Ash calmly said, "was completely and utterly _shit_."

Sam cringed; no way was he not going to scrub her.

"Much better than I expected though." _Huh?_ Sam tore her eyes from the target and saw Ash was grinning broadly at her. "I hadn't expected you to hit the target at all."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked weakly.

Ash shrugged. "Have you ever fired an assault rifle before?" Sam shook her head. "Well there you go; it's a more powerful weapon than you've ever used before, it's unfamiliar, and you're completely untrained. How the hell were you meant to hit anything on your first go? Now, let's get to work, eh?

"Where're you going wrong? First off, you _never_ fight your own weapon. Move your leg back a bit—" he crouched down, and his hands touched her left leg, guiding her back half a step, "and twist your shoulders a bit like _this_," he guided her upper body into a different stance. "Remember, the gun's on your side if you're on its. You want to position your body so the weapon's pointing naturally at the target – if you have to force it, you're doing it wrong. Shift your arm out a bit—" Ash gently repositioned Sam's right arm a touch, "—it'll help absorb the recoil. Now, let's try this again…"

* * *

It was hard work indeed. Ash was unrelenting but didn't fit Sam's prior idea of a British sergeant at all, never raising his voice. If she wasn't sure of something, he'd explain it and show it to her again. His attitude seemed to be that he was there to train her up if she wanted, and if she wanted to leave and drop out of the mission then that was fine with him; he wasn't making her do either.

Sam had persevered, Ash had pressed her on, and after almost an hour and a half her aim had improved somewhat and she was absorbing the recoil much more easily, to the point where Ash was satisfied that she was ready to try triple bursts. As he explained it to her, the principle behind using any automatic weapon lighter than a machinegun wasn't to be able to take out multiple targets with a burst, but to put as many rounds as accurately as possible into one target at a time and make absolutely certain that they were down for the count. You couldn't just fire off one shot, _bang_, and someone would immediately drop dead, as to get a killing shot you needed to hit something vital: the head, a major artery, an important internal organ, and at any kind of distance that was no easy thing to do, especially if you and your target were on the move. And no one, no matter how well trained, could ever hope to be able to take the time for a perfect shot on every single occasion they aimed a rifle. The triple burst setting enabled the shooter to put three rounds into the same point, which would be useful for punching through the armour the aliens had been wearing, and the more shots you put into someone and the faster you could do so maximised the likelihood that you'd inflict enough damage to take them down and could move onto the next member of the opposition, as the sergeant chose to refer to them.

Sam finally got the hang of things, and an hour later she was able to fire off three-round bursts with reasonable accuracy. The extra recoil had been difficult to handle at first, but she was getting used to absorbing it. Ash had commented that while her aim left a great deal to be desired by the SAS, she might just have scraped into the bottom end of a regular infantry battalion or Territorial Army unit, and at least she'd be able to lay down some pretty reasonable suppressing fire at long range while the SAS troopers 'slotted' any hostile contacts. But then, Sam wasn't expected to be able to fight even half as well as any of the troopers in the patrol: she was just expected to be able to survive and make some sort of contribution to a firefight.

After Sam had been practising for a while, Ash drew another M-16 with an M203 grenade launcher fitted under the barrel for himself, and was able to get in some practice of his own while keeping an eye on his student. Both rifle and grenade launcher were painted in the camouflage colours that seemed to be the SAS' trademark, a torch secured with masking tape below the M-16's barrel, and a scrap of camo-blanket wrapped around the rig's muzzle, safely away from any of the working parts but effectively helping to break up the outline. Sam sneaked glances over at him from time to time while reloading her own weapon, noting how he worked his assault rifle with a tightly controlled economy of swift, fluid and well-practised movement, body moving through a long-rehearsed routine to carry, cock, aim, fire, reselect rate-of-fire, re-sight, fire, re-sight, reselect rate-of-fire, fire again, and so on until he had to reload and then repeat the entire process all over again. He operated the weapon like a well-oiled machine, drilling holes in his targets swiftly and efficiently with an ease that could only have resulted from constant hours of practice. If he ever missed, Sam didn't notice.

Emptying another magazine, the sergeant removed it, slapped in a full one, and checked his watch. Sam finished off her own, glancing over as Ash handed her something. It was an automatic handgun.

"This might be a good time for you to get up to speed on these," he offered by way of explanation. "The Browning automatic; thirteen-round clip, 9mm, old, tried, tested, reliable, Belgian manufactured. This thing simply does not fuck up. It'll be your best friend in a tight spot and look after you if you make sure to return the favour. Clean it, keep it loaded and ready, care for it, get it repaired when it needs it – in fact, treat it as you would your firstborn child. This is your backup weapon, only to be used if your rifle fucks up, gets damaged, lost or if you run out of ammo for the Armalite. Don't use your Nine Milly if you can use your rifle. Have a go, we've got enough time before the brief."

The cycle of training began once again. Sam had to learn different stances and ways of grasping the new weapon, through a cycle of trial, error, Ash correcting her and she then had to strive to learn from his lessons. The Browning was a bit larger and longer than the US Air Force standard-issue Berettas Sam had used once or twice back in her military brat days, had more recoil and a lot more stopping power. Sam soon had the hang of the basics, and Ash drew another Browning for himself.

The contrast in their levels of skill was dramatic; Sam had enough difficulties with targets at ten yards, making headshots only one out of every three rounds she fired on average, and missing completely at least one round in every six or so. Ash, on the other hand, was calmly hitting targets at up to thirty yards away and only missed the head of one of his targets after going through five clips without slowing down. The 'stray' caught a target in the throat, just below where the chin would have been, while all the others were headshots. The 'miss' resulted in a volley of muttered swearing from Ash, who then accelerated in his use of ammunition as though he had a personal grudge against the target range. Sam had believed that Europeans didn't know a damn about pistols, but Ash must have had one in his hand when he was born or something given the accuracy with which he was demolishing the targets.

After her eleventh magazine clicked empty, Ash tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Time for us to shift it," he said. "Got that brief."

* * *

The room, on sub-level thirteen, was bare, grey and depressing, furnished with old second-hand-looking wooden and plastic folding chairs that seemed to have been designed more to be stacked neatly out of the way than sat on comfortably. It had been initially designed as a laboratory back when The Pit was first built during the late Thirties, but now was woefully out of date as labs on the upper levels had since been upgraded and surpassed Room S13-96's capabilities. The old lab equipment had finally been stripped out in the Seventies, and the room had been left to gather dust.

Below this there was only one more floor, which had long ago been abandoned and recently commandeered by the SAS patrol as a training area. They were in the very bowels of the base, and few personnel ever ventured to this level. Room S13-96 had been adopted by the patrol as their private little briefing-room-cum-lounge. Someone had found the time to drag an old rickety wooden crate down, upon which now perched an elderly and somewhat battered portable black and white television set. If there was a remote control for it anywhere, Sam couldn't see it. A couple of naked lightbulbs hung from the ceiling and the room stank of a curious aroma of old teabags, stale coffee, cigarettes and a faint whiff of beer.

Ash had told Sam to keep hold of her weapons and the unused ammunition and made her add extra magazines for her rifle, after loading himself up with clips of ammunition and a box of spare rounds for his own and a clutch of bombs for his grenade launcher. The pair of them looked about ready to re-fight the Oman War, as Ash had jokingly put it. Sam had asked what that war had been about, and regretted it after Ash filled her in on the history and insisted on comparing it to Vietnam, then detailing the Borneo War and Malayan Conflict and balancing British successes in those conflicts against American disasters in Korea and Vietnam. The television series _M.A.S.H._ had also been discussed.

As briefings went, this one was perhaps even more informal than the previous meeting, or so Sam thought at any rate. By the time the entire patrol had entered, she could scarcely believe that a single one of these men had managed to be accepted into any military organisation, never mind a Special Forces unit. They entered in dribs and drabs, slouching down on the chairs. None of them displayed anything resembling the discipline Sam had hitherto associated with military personnel – even their officer was fairly lax. Not one of them was in a complete uniform, with one or two wearing camouflage trousers and t-shirts.

The first to show up were Jimmy and Sid Vicious, as Ash had identified them to her, strolling in chatting together as casually as you pleased, wearing faded and worn black denim jeans and t-shirts bearing the legends _"I HAD IT IN BARBADOS"_ and _"STRANGE FRUIT: '78 TOUR WISBECH OPEN AIR ROCK FESTIVAL"_ respectively. Their appearances were stark contrasts: Jimmy was a mere five foot eight in height, quietly spoken, skinny, dark-haired, somewhat handsome and looked to be barely out of his teens as he sipped at a tin of Coke, while Sid was a noisy, muscularly built dirty-blonde scraping in at six foot four with a boxer's nose and ears that could have concealed radar dishes, and was lighting up his third cigarette of the day while waving a paper cup full of coffee around to illustrate some point he was making. If Ash was to be believed, they both read classical literature for a pastime.

Froggy showed up next wearing his prized _"FROGMEN DO IT UNDERWATER"_ shirt, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth and a battered, well-read and clearly much-loved paperback book shoved in the back pocket of his baggy slacks. It was _The Fellowship of the Ring_. Scudder had only donned a vest, a pair of Gore-Tex trousers and his boots, and was scratching idly at his tattooed chest through the vest as he talked something over with Ross, the major himself only half-dressed and puffing away at a Silk Cut. Gareth Berensen looked to be a bit drowsy still as he consulted Ash about something involving the armoury Sam couldn't quite follow, chomping on a Mars bar to wake himself up. Nev arrived wearing tracksuit bottoms, a torn Harlequins rugby shirt and minging old trainers, a broadsheet newspaper in hand, which he was reading the sports page of. To Samantha Carter, PhD, standing in their midst and looking at them, they seemed to represent the kind of line-up the police might gather to stand with a particularly physically fit suspect.

"Fancy a fag?" Froggy asked her.

Sam did a double-take. _"What!"_ she finally asked.

"A – fag. Do – you – want – one?" Froggy repeated himself slowly and carefully, much as he might do for those he believed to be idiots or very deaf. He waved his cigarette packet under Sam's nose in emphasis.

"Oh – no, thanks," Sam told him, realisation dawning. "I don't smoke."

Froggy shrugged. "Fair 'nough."

Eventually, Ross called out over the vague hubbub, "All right! Listen up. We're going to Stirling Lines this morning and we'll be coming back Tuesday night—" This was met with much muttered approval from the troopers. "—and Michael Fish's weather forecast off the Beeb looks like complete shit – could get stormy."

"Ah, what else is new?" Sid Vicious asked as he drained his coffee. He crumpled the cup, chucking it across the room and into a bin.

Ross grinned. "Exactly. As you know, we've got a mission specialist, Doctor Carter. Ash? How's she coming? Froggy, shut the fuck up right now!" The frogman smirked one last time at the accidental double entendre, but complied and ceased his sniggering.

"Well, I'm going to give her a run with the Armalite and Browning for now – a full 203 rig'd be a bit heavy-going," Ash reported. "She's not exactly crap at shooting, much better than I'd feared, so I might be able to do something with her. Early days yet. It's the endurance and patrolling that'll be the really important bit."

"Right. Okay, here's what we're going to be doing over the next three days: in half an hour one of Mason's lads and a Bedford'll be here to take us to D Squadron Lines, seeing as the boys from D are spread between the usual postings in Belize, Malaya, Bessbrook and hell-only-knows where else, and Hayes has agreed to lend us a staff weapon for testing purposes. When we get to Hereford, I want you, Doctor, to see if you can figure out how it works. We'll give it half an hour, then get moving if you get nowhere. If you work it out, we'll get some practice in with it before going on patrol.

"Ash? I want you to take Carter with you – what you do to train her is up to you. The rest of you lot are with me, practising SOPs and generally getting some nice fresh air." A chorus of good-natured groans met this last comment. "Ash, if you feel Carter is ready to keep up with us and you manage to find where we're at, by all means link up. One thing though: Hayes is only clearing Carter for Hereford provided she doesn't get seen by anyone not affiliated with the SGP – you might want to work out a cover story for if the shit hits the fan, G Squadron got back from Columbia last month and they're on training exercises in the area. So don't fuck up, either of you! Any questions?"

"Yeah – if B's on CRW, D's scattered about and the woodentops're training here, what's A Squadron doing?" Jimmy asked.

"They've taken over the Columbian duty, so they'll be out of our way. And before anyone asks, the trainees on Selection are doing the jungle-warfare survival training in Brunei, so we needn't worry about them."

"How 'bout J Squadron?" That was Froggy. Sam saw Ash frown at this.

Ross rolled his eyes. "About half of Mountain Troop's off chasing a clan of Ilk'nya demons in Kazakhstan. Sergeant Parker's in charge of our lot, so they ought to be all right."

Ash grinned. "Oh, _yeah. _With Danny-boy in charge, them Silkies're going to scream the place down once him and the lads get stuck in."

"Why-aye, more trophies fer the Squadron Int'rest Room," Scudder agreed. "They look bloody good wi' their 'eads stuffed 'n' mounted on the wall."

"Gareth," Ross glanced sympathetically at the young sniper "a few of your mates in Air Troop are back in South Armagh—"

"Aw, shittin' 'ell," Gareth groaned.

"—turns out that Mohra demon you shot back in March had a sister and she's pissed that he's dead, never mind that he wanted to bring about an apocalypse – they're working with Department 19B and the lads of 14th Int, trying to track her down before she does too much damage. The Provos and UVF are getting in the way as usual. The rest of the ice cream boys are deployed in London, seems the Underground's got infested with yet _another_ demon-worshipping cult. Vince Lennox is leading our lot on that job, and they've got that new lad Alex Frost along with 'em for a bit of extra firepower."

"In't Alex the guy with the Crazh'nar'hc demon great-grandmother?" asked Sid.

"Yeah, that's the bloke," said Scudder. "Not very good with magic, though."

"Major Harcourt's working with Trevor Black and Matt Cross," Ross continued, "they're breaking in some new lads from G Squadron back at J Squadron Lines. I heard something about a few guys from Mobility Troop going to the Australian outback a month ago – no confirmation either way on that one so it's either a rumour or classified – but I do know that a couple of blokes from Mobility Troop and the rest of Mountain Troop shipped out to Pakistan recently with some Pinkies. The Green Slime are making noises about a squad of _Spetsnaz_ getting turned into vampires during the Afghanistan War and hanging around after the Soviets pulled out, so I reckon they'll be working with the Russians on cleaning up that one."

Jimmy snorted quietly. "Friggin' A-Team," he muttered.

"Got that right," Sid Vicious agreed.

"Another six lads of Mobility are s'posed to be off in the area of Christchurch in New Zealand – I'm not sure what they're up to, but it seems you-know-who has shown up in Wellington. It could be that his box got the wrong location."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Ash commented, grinning.

"Remember 1989?" Scudder nudged the sergeant. "'E wound up on a building site up 'roond Tidworth way when them fuckin' Cybermen were doon in Birmingham's sewers. My cousin, 'e was working as a bricky there when the bloody thing dematerialised. The gaffer was fuckin' _livid_ 'cause a' that."

Ross stared pointedly at them and the NCOs shut up. "J Squadron Lines got a report from an SBS marine on an oil rig in the North Sea requesting backup urgently, so half of Boat Troop's gone out as reinforcements," the major continued. "Some riggers were going missing – Five thought the disappearances might be the work of the IRA at first; turns out there's some new sub-species of aquatic daemon out there.

"The rest of Boat Troop are still in New York. They're working with that team from UNIT investigating a suspected sighting of William the Bloody and Drusilla in the sewers. So far all they've found is a couple of escaped alligators from a zoo and the vampire-formerly-known-as-Angelus eating rats. The guys reported back to the Lines yesterday to say that they're getting pissed off from the lack of Spike and Dru, but the alligators are very tasty when marinaded in Tabasco and 'Angel' as he calls himself these days is a gibbering wreck. That's the lot."

Sam blinked. "Major…did you just say _vampires_?" she asked weakly.

"What?" Ash looked honestly surprised. "You can handle wormholes, aliens and ray guns but not vampires, demons and magic?"

Sam slumped in her seat. "What?" she asked, in a small voice.

Scudder sighed, clambering out of his seat and crouching down beside Sam, taking her hand gently in his in a fatherly manner – Ash had said something about him having kids, so she guessed he had a bit of practice. "S'all real, pet," he said quietly. "'S what we do: we fight 'em. Vamps, demons, rogue sorcerers, the works."

"Just whose idea was it to reveal one of Britain's best-kept secrets anyway?" Ash asked, his undertone harsh.

Ross shrugged. "We had a vote before turning in – thought it was only fair that Doctor Carter knew who she was working with."

"So you called a vote without me?" Ash was clearly annoyed at being cut out of the loop.

"Ash, man – would ye have said the Doc was ready?" Scudder asked, turning away briefly from the astrophysicist.

"Well, I s'pose so," Ash admitted.

"Thought so. That's why."

"W-w-wait just a second here, guys – you seriously expect me to believe that _vampires_ and _magic_ are real!" Sam spluttered. "That's just crazy! What next, is Dracula real too, then?"

Gareth sniffed. "Yeah, but he's complete and total tosser – Christopher Lee shows him as way more intelligent than he really is. The sooner someone finds a way of killing the bastard permanent-like, the better."

"Not many vampires are 'specially happy 'bout 'im," Sid Vicious added. "Bram Stoker gets an interview with the little gobshite an' funding to write his book, next thing you know, everyone knows how to kill vampires. Word is, The Master contracted the Order of Takara to off the greasy little sod, and old Kakistos was good and pissed at Drac for almost a century."

Sam slumped in her seat. "You guys are crazy," she whispered.

"Tell ye what," Scudder grinned, "when we get back, we'll show ye summat o' the supernat'ral, then ye can decide for yourself."

"Look, Doctor, we all know this is a lot to take in. There isn't a man in this room who didn't think the whole situation was ridiculous when he first heard about it," Ross said reasonably. "You don't have to take our word for it, okay?

"Now, next item of business: our kit. The patrol is to last up to eight days: after that, we're getting off the planet and coming back here, one way or another, so that's how much food and water you'll need. Nev, you sort out the medic kit."

Although all the troopers had medical experience, the whole of the SAS being trained to a high standard, Nev, being a patrol medic, was partly NHS trained. He would automatically get trauma equipment, including a complete intravenous set and field dressings for everybody.

"We won't be worrying about taking any radios heavier than PRR sets, not on this job. Sid and Gareth, I'd like you two to run a complete check on our sets."

The two troopers would check that each set taken along had a fresh battery, that everyone had spare batteries, and that the sets actually worked.

"Ash, Froggy, can you sort out the dems kit?"

Trained as demolitions specialists, they would sort out what to take by way of explosives. Not knowing what they might have cause to blow up, if anything, they'd take a supply of PE4 – plastic explosives. They'd take the PE out of all its packaging and wrap it in masking tape to keep its shape. This would save the noise of unpacking in the field and any risk of compromise as a result of dropped rubbish.

"Personal weaponry: 203s with Brownings as back-ups all round."

"What about the heavy stuff?" Ash asked.

"We'll take a gimpy," Ross decided, referring to the popular machineguns. "Scudder, Sid? You up for carrying it?"

Considered by some to be the best weapon in the British Army's armoury, the 'Gimpy' was considered to be a battle-winning weapon. The SAS had always made extensive use of the weapon since the Borneo War in the Sixties. Capable of hitting out to eight hundred metres and punching a 7.62mm round through a brick wall when in a light role and mounted on a bipod, the weapon was belt-fed and designed to spread its fire around a beaten zone one metre wide and a hundred and ten metres deep. In this light role, the gimpy was heavy even without ammunition, weighing in at twenty-four pounds, but on the whole well worth taking along. As was often the practice, the two-hundred-round spare ammunition belts would be shared out and carried by the other members of the patrol, with the exception of Carter.

"Sure, no prob," Scudder nodded.

"Sounds good to me, Boss," Sid Vicious grinned.

"What about anti-armour capability?" Nev asked.

Ross shrugged. "I haven't a clue there. The opposition could have giant walking tanks like those things in the _Star Wars_ films, or for all we know they're still using horses and carts and pinched some fancy weapons from a crashed flying saucer. We _could_ take a Carl Gustav, but…"

The others nodded in agreement. The 84millimetre recoilless rifle was a lot of extra baggage for a threat that might not even materialise. "Go lightweight?" Gareth suggested.

"Something like a LAW 80 would come in right handy against any buildings or bunkers we find, like," Scudder pointed out. "They'll go awf if'n they hit the proper bloody wall."

"LAW 80s are too heavy for this job," said Ash. "We don't know how far we'll have to tab, or how long we'll be on the move."

"66s then," Ross decided. "We'll take four – no sense in overdoing it."

The American-manufactured M72 throwaway anti-tank missile was a favourite weapon. It didn't go through as much armour as some of the others, but it was the most easily portable and therefore best-suited for a 'just-in-case' contingency role. The 66mm rocket had become popular with the Regiment during the Oman campaign and the Falklands War, proving itself to be particularly invaluable in the Pebble Island Raid. It was extremely compact, less than two feet long when collapsed, and weighed about five and a half pounds. In order to be fired, all a soldier had to do was extend the weapon, aim through the simple scope and tap the rubber detent that formed the firing mechanism. Although the weapon was good for only one shot, it was also simple in design, being a fire-and-forget weapon that lacked any fiddly onboard electronic equipment and therefore rarely suffered from technical or environmental faults.

"What do we do for SAM cover?" Jimmy asked.

"Like the anti-armour kit, we don't know if we'll need one," Ross said. "It'd be nice to justify carting along a Stinger, but I think it's going to be out of the question."

Ash shook his head slowly and doubtfully. "Yeah, it wouldn't be feasible to take it all the way. But being without any SAM cover at all leaves us vulnerable. How about a compromise? We take a Stinger and four missiles in with us. We cache them at our first RV point unless it looks like we'll need them right away, but that way we can always go back and dig 'em out if something crops up."

It was a good suggestion, and Ross considered it carefully. The American Stinger system was a very effective hand-held surface-to-air missile, ideal for protecting small, isolated units from enemy air attack. It had certainly proved its worth in the Falklands and the Gulf. The weapon's main drawback, from the point of view of this or any other patrol, was that the launcher alone weighed thirty-three pounds and its individual missiles were each a similar weight.

"I'll carry it if it makes any difference to your decision," Ash put in, noting Ross' continued hesitation. "And it's not sheer masochism – I'd feel a sight happier."

"All right, you've got it," Ross said. "But we dump it at the first RV, no arguments."

Ash grinned. "Right you are, Boss."

"What about mortars?" Nev asked.

"I doubt we'll have much call to use them," said Ross. "As for the quiet stuff, we'll take a pair of Welrods in with us. Jimmy, Ash? You two'll get the most use from them.

Jimmy nodded. "Sounds good."

"Each patrol will carry a Claymore. Four fragmentation grenades and two white phosphorous each. That ought to take care of the hardware," he said. "We won't be exactly travelling light, but it's a step up from water pistols and a big stick. Anything else?"

"Yeah," said Sid Vicious. "Have we got a callsign yet?"

"X-ray Tango One," said Ross.

"Christ only knows where they dug that up from," Froggy snorted.


End file.
